‘Is yon Ernest Farrington? Mimie’s——? Yes? Let him be; let him die the death. I won’t stir a step to help the accursed hound.’
Herbert did not wait to hear all Rechab’s words, but rushed forward alone into the open. The fire increased in fury, but he passed through it and reached Ernest’s side, unscathed.
‘Come on, sir,’ he said; ‘lean on me; we’ll get back together.’ But almost as he spoke Ernest fell helplessly, struck by a second slug.
There was nothing for Herbert but to lift the inanimate body upon his shoulders and stagger back as best he could. He was himself wounded more than once, but only slightly, before he regained the stockade, but still he regained it and laid his burden safely within.
‘Weel done, mon, weel done,’ said the surgeon. ‘Let’s see if ye were in time or no,’ and he proceeded to examine Ernest’s hurts.
The pain of probing the wounds brought the unfortunate officer to his senses, and opening his eyes, he looked wildly around.
‘Larkins, Larkins; is Larkins here?’ he gasped.
Both who bore that name knelt by his side, and hung breathlessly upon his words.
‘I loved her. I did, upon my soul. Tell her I said so with my last words; that I ask her forgiveness, as I do yours. I wronged her, but I—I—repaired it—’