She pressed his hand and kissed him, and went out. The huge form lay still, breathing slowly. A fly, wakened out of hibernation by the heat of the fire, buzzed about his face. He swore, and his scarlet nightcap bobbed as he moved painfully.
Ned came in, little liking to be there. He lacked the spirit and mental courage for such a time.
"Kill this blasted fly, will 'e? Then get pen and ink. 'Tis a very old custom in our race, Ned, to write our own epitaphs when we can. I've put mine off and off, along of a silly fancy about doing it; but the time be ripe, and my head's clear."
"Don't say things like that, father. You may get better yet. He's going to fetch another doctor to-morrow."
"Let him fetch twenty—they can do nought. 'Tis the last back-heel that none ever stand against. I don't grumble. I'm only sorry that 'twas my own son has struck his father. Death don't matter, but 'tis a bitter death to know the fruit of your loins—— His work I was doing: let him know that—his work. An old man doing a young man's work. If Rupert had been here, he'd have been shifting they sacks. Let none deny it. 'Tis solemn truth."
Ned knew the extreme falsity of this impression, but he made no effort to contradict his father.
"What I done to Tavistock a month agone, I might have undone afore I went," continued the sick man. "But not now—not when I remember 'twas his wickedness has hurried me into my grave. Where be my son Nathan's ship to now?"
"Don't know, father."
"You ought to know, then. Him that I would see I can't see; and him that would see me I won't see."
"You might see him, father, for his peace."