“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant. “He asked several times if there was not some one who could take down his wishes in writing, and let him sign it before witnesses.”
“That will do admirably,” said Paul, pushing his way into the room, closely followed by Terry Driscoll. “Ah, Driscoll,” said Paul, unctuously, “if we were moralists instead of poor, frail, time-serving creatures as we are, what a lesson might we not read in the fate of the poor fellow that lies there!”
“Ay, indeed!” sighed out Terry, assentingly.
“What an empty sound 'my Lord' is, when a man comes to that!” said Paul, in the same solemn tone, giving, however, to the words “my Lord” a startling distinctness that immediately struck upon the sick man's ear. Conway quickly looked up and fixed his eyes on the speaker.
“Is it all true, then,—am I not dreaming?” asked the wounded soldier, eagerly.
“Every word of it true, my Lord,” said Classon, sitting down beside the bed.
“And I was the first, my Lord, to bring out the news,” interposed Terry. “'Twas myself found the papers in an old farm-house, and showed them to Davenport Dunn.”
“Hush, don't you see that you only confuse him?” whispered Classon, cautiously.
“Dunn, Dunn,” muttered Conway, trying to recollect. “Yes, we met at poor Kellett's funeral,—poor Kellett! the last of the Albueras!”
“A gallant soldier, I have heard,” chimed in Classon, merely to lead him on.