They raised him upon the pillow, and his mother supported the languid head upon her bosom.
"Arthur, my son! are you suffering, my poor boy?"
"Yes. It will pass away. Do not grieve. Kiss me, dear mother."
He was gasping for breath, and his hand was tightly clasped about his mother's withered palm. She wiped the dampness from his brow, mingling her tears with the cold dews of death.
"Is Harold there?"
"Yes, Arthur."
"You will not forget? And you will love and guard her well?"
"Yes, Arthur."
"Put away the sword, Harold; it is accursed of God. Is not that the moonlight that streams upon the bed?"
"Yes. Does it disturb you, Arthur?"