Far away, on the ridge opposite, his figure sharp-cut against the pale green of the sky, the British leader stood watching, with madness in his eyes also—but the madness of a great triumph, and not of despair. For here was glory at last—glory such as crowns the very few. But a few short hours, and English steeples would be rocking with the clash of joy-bells, and the voice of an empire would be shouting his name to the skies. The adoration of a multitude, the approval of a King—all, all was his. Ah! to die now, now when glory's gold was untarnished, and the green of laurel fresh. "God kill me now, now," he breathed, and with the prayer came the answer. A blinding flash overhead, the snap of a breaking harpstring, and Hector was down on the frozen ground, life's bright crimson bubbling from his breast.
In a second an arm was thrust beneath him where he lay, with his head fallen back on a khaki-clad shoulder. Green eyes, horrified and appalled, looked down into the dimming violet of a dying man's.
"Old Un," he gasped, "that—that you? What's h—happened, Old Un?"
"Shrapnel, sir, burst right over you. I—I am afraid you're hurt, sir. Oh, fetch that doctor, damn you, damn you."
"Old Un, you're crying, blast you. There are tears running down that long nose of yours. You look damned absurd. What's the harm in dying?"
"No, no. Oh, will you hurry?"
"Shut up. I'll be gone before he comes. Put your bill closer, I—I want to say something; a bloody swan sings when he's dying, Old Un, and I—I can't shout. Where the devil are ye? I can't see you."
"Here, sir, close beside you," sobbed the other.
"The devil's got his own at last, Godwin. D'ye hear him chuckling, the old Satan? Ha! ha! Chuckle away, my friend; I'm not afraid; I'll twist your tail yet, blast ye. Old Un."
"Yes, yes."