“Oh, father,” sobbed Harry, “the best, the dearest! Oh, my honoured lord!”
The dying man, as with an effort, brought his far gaze to the two young faces bending in sorrow over him.
“It is well,” he said, “very well. Diana, lay your hand in his. I would fain place it there myself, but I cannot, I cannot.” His eye roamed as if seeking. Once again he smiled at Bracy’s distraught countenance.
“Old comrade,” he breathed, “pluck out the blade.”
The Lord Constable had given his last command.
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD’S NOVELS
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