‘Lancelot, I learnt this dodge from the only friend I ever had in the world, or ever shall have; and a week after I marched him home to his deathbed in this very way.’
‘Paul—Paul Tregarva,’ whispered old Harry, ‘put your head down here: wipe my mouth, there’s a man; it’s wet, uncommon wet.’ It was his own life-blood. ‘I’ve been a beast to you, Paul. I’ve hated you, and envied you, and tried to ruin you. And now you’ve saved my life once this night; and here you be a-nursing of me as my own son might do, if he was here, poor fellow! I’ve ruined you, Paul; the Lord forgive me!’
‘Pray! pray!’ said Paul, ‘and He will forgive you. He is all mercy. He pardoned the thief on the cross—’
‘No, Paul, no thief,—not so bad as that, I hope, anyhow; never touched a feather of the squire’s. But you dropped a song, Paul, a bit of writing.’
Paul turned pale.
‘And—the Lord forgive me!—I put it in the squire’s fly-book.’
‘The Lord forgive you! Amen!’ said Paul, solemnly.
Wearily and slowly they stepped on towards the old man’s cottage. A messenger had gone on before, and in a few minutes the squire, Mrs. Lavington, and the girls, were round the bed of their old retainer.
They sent off right and left for the doctor and the vicar; the squire was in a frenzy of rage and grief.
‘Don’t take on, master, don’t take on,’ said old Harry, as he lay; while the colonel and Honoria in vain endeavoured to stanch the wound. ‘I knowed it would be so, sooner or later; ’tis all in the way of business. They haven’t carried off a bird, squire, not a bird; we was too many for ’em—eh, Paul, eh?’