Carlyon shook the sand from his paper, rose with it in his hand, and came to the bed. “Are you able to sign your will, Cousin?” he asked.
“Yes, yes!” Cheviot whispered eagerly, trying to grasp the quill that was placed between his fingers.
“You bequeath all the property of which you die possessed to your wife, Elinor Mary Cheviot. Is that your wish?”
A little laugh shook Cheviot. He caught his breath on a stab of pain, and gasped, “Yes, yes, I don’t care! If only I could see more plain!”
“Hold the candle nearer!”
Mr. Presteign picked up the branch in a shaking hand.
“It’s not that, my lord,” the doctor muttered.
“I know. Come, Eustace, here is the pen, and. there is enough light now. Write down your name!”
The dying man seemed to make a great effort. For a moment, held up in Carlyon’s arms, he peered stupidly at the paper under his hand; then his eyes cleared a little and his aimless clutch on the quill tightened. Slowly he traced his signature at the foot of the paper. The pen slipped from his fingers, the ink on it staining the quilt. “Oh, I know what I should do!” he said, as though someone had challenged this. “Put my—put my hand on it, and say—and say—I give this as my last will and testament. That’s it. By God, I beat you at the post, Carlyon!”
Carlyon lowered him onto the pillows, and removed the paper from under his hand. “You two are witnesses,” he told the other men. “Sign it, if you please!”