"Help me to build a cairn," said I.
So he helped me. We built a tall cairn, and I laid the crown within it.
The sun was setting as we laid the last stone in place. We walked in silence down to the pass, and there I shook hands with him by the little chapel, and received his blessing before setting my face northwards.
I dare say that he stood for a long while, watching me as I descended the curves of the road. But I never once looked back until I had crossed the valley, far below. The great peak rose behind me; and it seemed to me that on its summit a diamond shone amongst the stars.
POSTSCRIPT.
BY GERVASE ARUNDEL.
July 15 (St. Swithun's), 1761.
My nephew has asked me to write the few words necessary to conclude this narrative.
The day after my brother's burial, the Gauntlet, in company with General Paoli's gunboat, Il Sampiero, weighed and left the island of Giraglia for Isola Rossa, where by agreement we were to wait one calendar month before sailing for England.
The foregoing pages will sufficiently explain why the month passed without my nephew's putting in an appearance. For my part, albeit my arguments had been powerless to dissuade him from going to Genoa, I never expected him to return, but consoled myself with the knowledge that he had gone to his fate in a good cause, and in a spirit not unworthy of his father.