So the ancient woman leaned to the pillow and laid the feather-weight of her withered hand, that was like a brown moth, upon Sir Hugh's yellow fingers, and she spoke to him earnestly, while only Gabriel and Evelyn were left in the room to hear.
"Hugh Ockram," she said, "this is the end of your life; and as I saw you born, and saw your father born before you, I am come to see you die. Hugh Ockram, will you tell me the truth?"
The dying man recognised the little faraway voice he had known all his life, and he very slowly turned his yellow face to Nurse Macdonald; but he said nothing. Then she spoke again.
"Hugh Ockram, you will never see the daylight again. Will you tell the truth?"
His toad-like eyes were not yet dull. They fastened themselves on her face.
"What do you want of me?" he asked, and each word struck hollow upon the last. "I have no secrets. I have lived a good life."
Nurse Macdonald laughed—a tiny, cracked laugh, that made her old head bob and tremble a little, as if her neck were on a steel spring. But Sir Hugh's eyes grew red, and his pale lips began to twist.
"Let me die in peace," he said slowly.
But Nurse Macdonald shook her head, and her brown, moth-like hand left his and fluttered to his forehead.
"By the mother that bore you and died of grief for the sins you did, tell me the truth!"