“Then pray again.  Pray the prayer for the dying!”

A shudder shook the boy’s frame, and his face blenched.  Then he
struggled again to free himself--turning and twisting himself this way
and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately--but uselessly--to
burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him,
and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling, from time
to time, “The moments are precious, they are few and precious--pray the
prayer for the dying!”

The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles,
panting.