The features were worn and haggard, the eye was yet bright, the mind powerful to the last.
He saw the delight of his eyes, the darling of his old age, enter, and looked sadly upon him, almost reproachfully. The youth took his passive hand in his warm grasp, and imprinted a kiss upon the wrinkled forehead.
"He has had all he needed—nothing has been wanting for his comfort?" said Osric inquiringly.
"We have been able to keep him alive, but he would not touch your gold, or aught you sent of late."
"Why not?" asked Osric, deeply hurt.
"He said it was the price of blood, wrung, it might be, from the hands of murdered peasants of your own kindred."
Ah! that shaft went home. Osric knew it was just. What else was the greater portion of the Baron's hoard derived from, save rapine and violence?
"It was cruel to let him starve."
"He has not starved; we have had other friends, but the famine has been sore in the land."
"Other friends! who?"