Later in the night, as death approached nearer and nearer, Philip's voice grew stronger, and the broken words he sighed denoted that he knew they were by his side, and that he was dying. In a few sobbing words uttered at long intervals, he thanked Mr. Hart for attempting to save him.
"Take care of Margaret," he whispered; "be a father to her." The utterance of the word brought other memories. "Dear old dad! I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. But John Hart will bring her to you. Dear old dad! love Margaret!"
Then his thoughts wandered, and he murmured expressions of affection towards the Silver Flagon--the dear old Silver Flagon--and always in connection with Margaret. All his thoughts clustered about the one supreme image that dwelt in his mind, the image of Margaret.
Mr. Hart whispered to Margaret to ask him the address of his father in the old country, for strange to say he had never told them; but all that they could get from him now were fitful words, in which his darling Margaret, the Silver Flagon, his dear old dad, and his faithful friend, were mentioned without connection.
An hour later, his whispered words denoted that his memory was wandering to the happy hours he had spent behind the scenes with Margaret; then he was riding for flowers for Margaret.
"O, if it's for that!" he murmured, repeating the words of the woman who had sold him the flowers; and then, "An echo stole it, and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on. I listened to her heart, and she said it beat for me. She loves me! she loves me!"
He murmured these last words, as though in happier days he had been in the habit of whispering them as a charm. Then his memory travelled on to the evening of his wedding-day, when he and his darling were sitting by the banks of the river, talking of the future. "We saw a cloud above us," he whispered, "and it was shaped like an angel. I see it now--I see it now! Shelter Margaret! Daddy! Margaret!" Presently his feeble fingers seemed to be seeking for something, and Mr. Hart, divining that he was seeking for the flowers he had bought for Margaret, placed near to his face a bunch that had been brought to the tent as a love-offering. A sigh escaped from the poor burnt bosom, and after that Philip did not speak again.
So the night crept on, and silence reigned within and without the tent. They could scarcely hear Philip's breathing; and when the morning's light was trembling below the horizon, and the quivering in the skies denoted that day was awaking, he lay an inanimate mass before them. They did not know it for a long time. William Hart was the first to discover it. With a solemn look, he drew up the white sheet, and softly, tenderly covered the face of his friend. With white lips and bursting pupils, Margaret watched the action, and when the form of what once was Philip was only indicated by the outlines of the white sheet which covered him, her strength gave way, and with a groan of anguish she sank upon the ground. Then it was that Mr. Hart felt the need of woman's help. He went out of the tent to obtain it, and found William Smith sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had sat there throughout the whole of that sad night.
"It is all over," said Mr. Hart, with sighs and sobs.
"Poor Philip! Poor dear lad!" said William Smith, and made no effort to keep back the tears.