"Lo' you, right this doth he alway!" whispered Guenllian.
Mr. Robesart shook his head. He laid his soft, cool, quieting hand upon the patient's brow.
"My son Lawrence, dost thou hear me?"
A lucid interval seemed to occur, for Lawrence looked up into his old friend's face, with calm weak eyes.
"I see thou dost. What came then to pass? Try to tell me."
"When, Father?" answered the faint voice. He had evidently no recollection of what had just happened.
"When the Irish leader came up to thy Lord with his spear in rest, and held forth his hand, or seemed as though he should do it."
A look of unutterable pain came into the sick man's eyes, and his tongue appeared to refuse its office.
"Tell me, my son," urged Mr. Robesart with gentle firmness. "Was it then the Irish shot him?"
Lawrence tried to lift himself, and looked round uneasily. Mr. Robesart helped him into a more elevated position, and with a look to Guenllian sent her behind the curtain.