And Roxholm, suddenly turning cold and pale himself, and seized upon by a horror of he knew not what, saw as in a dream my lord Dunstanwolde advancing towards him, his face ashen with woe, tears on his cheeks, his shaking hands outstretched as if in awful pity.
"My poor Gerald," he broke forth, one hand grasping his, one laid on his shoulder. "My poor lad—God help me—that I am no more fit to break to you this awful news."
"For God's sake!" cried Gerald, and sank into the chair my lord drew him to, where he sat himself down beside him, the tears rolling down his lined cheeks.
"Both—both your parents!" he cried. "God give me words! Both—both! At Pisa where they had stopped—a malignant fever. Your mother first—and within twelve hours your father! Praise Heaven they were not parted. Gerald, my boy!"
My lord Marquess leaned forward, his elbow sank on his knee, his forehead fell heavily upon his palm and rested there. He felt as if a blow had been struck upon his head, which he moved slowly, seeing nothing before him.
"Both! Both!" he murmured. "The happiest woman in England! Have you been happy? I would hear you say it again—before I leave you! Ay," shaking his head, "that was why the poor fool said, 'Your Grace.'"