An instant hand of ice seemed laid on Brion’s heart. He stared as if he were the victim of some shocking insult. In the fury of the contest he had lost all sense of individuality or personal association: he had not given one thought to Clerivault since that cry of the foretopman had sent them apart to prepare for the crash. Since, if he had assumed anything, it was that his old friend and comrade was somewhere near him, following in his footsteps, sharing his blood-drunken enthusiasm. And instead——
All the melancholy and foreboding of the last few days rushed back upon him with overwhelming force. To this it had tended, then; thither had the fatal finger, that he would not recognize, been pointing all the time. With a long-drawn gasp, he motioned to his informant, and the two hurried below together.
They had laid him on a table in the forecastle, near by where he had received his injury. It had come with the first guns fired, and the cry shocked from him had been one of those which had sickened Brion’s senses. To think of it!—to think of it! And he had gone on his way unheeding. A round shot had shattered all the poor creature’s lower body, and only a little space of time remained to him. He had passed long ago, but for the will in him to live to see his darling. He greeted Brion’s appearance with a white and ghastly smile. They had covered his lower limbs with a cloak: he was from the first beyond the reach of their rough surgery.
With hot and burning eyes the young man stooped over his friend, and took and pressed one chilling hand to his breast.
‘Clerivault!’ he whispered.
He would not ask him not to go and leave him, lest it should but add a futile pang to that mortal passing. The blue lips moved, and he bent to them.
‘Lower, sweetheart.’
‘Here, Clerivault.’
‘Lower—I had much to say—but there is only a moment—left. I must use it—to confess.’
‘What, dear?’