“My Lord Glencore himself!” said the Duke, who was himself an old and attached friend.
“Hush! not a word,” whispered Traynor; “he 's rallyin'—he 's comin' to; don't utter a syllable.”
Slowly and languidly the dying man raised his eyelids, and gazed at each of those around him. From their faces he turned his gaze to the chamber, viewing the walls and the ceiling all in turn; and then, in an accent barely audible, he said, “Where am I?”
“Amongst friends, who love and will cherish you, dear Glencore,” said the Duke, affectionately.
“Ah, Brignolles, I remember you. And this,—who is this?”
“Traynor, my Lord,—Billy Traynor, that will never leave you while he can serve you!”
“Whose tears are those upon my hand,—I feel them hot and burning,” said the sick man; and Billy stepped back, that the light should fall upon the figure that knelt beside him.
“Don't cry, poor fellow,” said Glencore; “it must be a hard world, or you have many better and dearer friends than I could have ever been to you. Who is this?”
Billy tried, but could not answer.
“Tell him, if you know who it is; see how wild and excited it has made him,” cried the Duke; for, stretching out both hands, Glencore had caught the boy's face on either side, and continued to gaze on it, in wild eagerness. “It' is—it is!” cried he, pressing it to his bosom, and kissing the forehead over and over again.