And now, provoked by the interruption, he arose to see the cause; when the door slowly opened, and Frank stood before him, pale and bloodless, with one arm in a sling, and supporting himself on a stick with the other. His wasted limbs but half filled his clothes; while in his lustreless eye and quivering lip there seemed the signs of coming death.
With an instinct of kindness, the old General drew out a chair and pressed the poor boy down upon it. The youth kissed the hand as it touched him, and then heaved a heavy sigh.
“This exertion was unfit for you, my poor boy,” said the Count, kindly. “They should not have permitted you to leave your bed.”
“It was my fault, not theirs, General. I heard that you were about to leave the village without coming to the hospital, and I thought, as perhaps——,” here his voice faltered, and a gulping fulness of the throat seemed almost to choke him—“that as, perhaps, we might never meet again in this world, I ought to make one effort to see you, and tell you that I am not, nor ever was, a traitor!”
As though the effort had exhausted all “his strength, his arms dropped as he said the words; his head fell forward, and he would have fallen to the ground had not the old General caught him in his arms.
“You are too weak, too ill for all this, my poor fellow.” said the Count, as he held the boy's hand in his own, and gazed affectionately at him.
“True, ever true,” muttered the youth, with half-closed lids.
“I will hear all this when you are better, Frank; when you are strong, and able to declare it manfully and openly. I will bless you, with my heart's warmest blessing, for the words that restore us both to fair fame and honor; but you must not speak more now.”