"He's lying in the arbour, m'm. And he's no worse, anyway."
Yes, there he was, lying--such a long length--on his camp-bed covered with his plaid. Lying under the arbour of Jonah's gourd, about which he had chattered so gaily as being a laughing-stock to the other officers, though they dearly loved to sit in its shade. The ripe fruit hung scarlet amid the yellowing leaves. It seemed to throw the blue pallor of his face into louder warning that Death was in grips with Life.
She knelt beside the bed and took his hand without one word. She had seen too many cholera cases to hope for speech, but the eyelids quivered and the fingers closed on hers.
"How long?" she asked.
"Since yesterday morning. He would not give in--we were to move to-night, ye see----"
"Why didn't you----?" Words failed her for reproach.
"He wouldna let me send. I'm thinking he was afraid for ye."
There was a long pause. Her heart was full of regret, of bitterness. Afraid for her--oh, Duke, Duke!
"And he has everything?"
"Aye, everything! The doctor will be here again the now."