She dies not herself." "You are kind, gentlemen," he went on after a pause, finding them continue silent; "I will show you all.

Pray the saint for me at his shrine that I may die and go to purgatory.

Or (if it were to a different one) even to hell--that I might escape for ever from La Meffraye." His hand fumbled a moment at the closely buttoned collar of his blue blouse.

Then he succeeded in undoing it and showed his neck.

From chin to bosom it was a mass of ghastly bites, some partially healed, more of them recent and yet raw, while the skin, so far as the three Scots could observe it, was covered with a hieroglyphic of scratches, claw marks, and, as it seemed, the bites of some fierce wild beast.
"Great Master of Heaven!" cried James Douglas.