“Your message?” cried Claire, turning pale. “Is—is he worse?”
The surgeon bowed his head.
“I had hopes when you were here last,” he said gently; “but there has been an unfavourable turn. The poor fellow has been asking for you, Miss Denville; you had better come at once.”
He led the way to the infirmary, where the finely-built, strong man lay on the simple pallet, his face telling its own tale more eloquently than words could have spoken it.
“Ah, little sister,” he said feebly, as his face lit up with a happy smile. “I wanted you. You will not mind staying with me and talking. Tell me,” he continued, as Claire knelt down by his bed’s head, “is it all true, or have they been saying I am innocent to make it easier—now I am going away?”
“No, no, Fred,” said Claire; “it is true that you are quite innocent.”
“Is this the truth?” he said feebly.
“The truth,” whispered Claire; “and you must live—my brother—to help and protect me.”
“No,” he said sadly; “it is too late. I’m glad though that I did not kill the old woman. It seemed all a muddle. I was drunk that night. Poor old dad! Can’t they set him free?”
“My boy!—Fred!—can you forgive me?” cried Denville, bending over the face that gazed up vacantly in his.