The words had scarcely passed his lips, when a soft voice exclaimed, "I am here, my dear friend Somers, I trust that this is not serious. A sad, sad affliction, you have encountered to-night. But you must cheer up, you must, indeed."
The minister had entered the room unperceived, and now stood by the bed-side.
"Herman Barnhurst!" ejaculated Colonel Tarleton.
The tall, slender figure of the clergyman, dressed in deep black, was disclosed to the gaze of the dying man, who gazed intently at his blonde face, effeminate in its excessive fairness, and then exclaimed, reaching his hand,—
"Come, I am going. I want you to show me the way!"
"Really, my dear friend," began Barnhurst, passing his hand over his hair, which, straight and brown and of silken softness, fell smoothly behind his ears, "you must bear up. This is not so serious as you imagine."
"I tell you I am going. I have often heard you preach,—once or twice in Trinity—I rather liked you—and now I want you to show me the way! Do you see there?" he extended his trembling hand, "there's the way I'm going. It's all dark. You're a minister of my church too; I want you to show me the way?"
There was a terrible emphasis in the accent,—a terrible entreaty in the look of the dying man.
The Rev. Herman Barnhurst sank back in a chair, much affected.
"Has he made his will?" he whispered to the Doctor, "so much property and no heirs: he could do so much good with it. Had not you better send for a lawyer?"