"Hugh, Hugh, my boy. Thank God!" he faltered out.
"You are wounded," I sobbed. "Are you in pain? Tell me, father."
A spasm of agony passed over his face, but he answered me in a while.
"My side—a spear-head. 'Twill soon be over."
I passed my arm around him, and gazed into his face with streaming eyes.
"Father, you must live," I sobbed. "Rupert Devereux has confessed. All is known!"
He nodded, and smiled faintly.
"I know, Hugh. He was first over the trenches. They were murdering me. He fought like a devil. There they lie—five of them. He saved my life, and crawled here as he was dying—told me—everything. I forgave him. See."
I looked around, and there, scarcely a yard away, lay my Uncle Rupert, with a calm peace in his white face, turned to heaven, which in life he had never known.
*****