“I show you how it affects me,” he continued, simply. “No matter what he did in some stupid hour in London, he was a brave soldier before that, and after that. He fought for many losing causes; he died fighting for one which was most hopeless of all. I am proud that I am his son. I am proud for you, that you are his nephew. And something has occurred to me that I think you will like to do—for me and for him. When I stood to-day over our vault—where we are all buried—it cut me to the heart to remember that one of us lies alone, a great way off—in a strange land by himself. I propose to you that you go to Spain for me—it is at Seo de Urgel, in the mountain country of the Catalans—and that you find his grave, and that you bring him back here to sleep with his people. He would not return in his lifetime—but I think he would be pleased with us for bringing him back now.”
Edward had looked fixedly up at his cousin, then glanced away, then allowed his blank gaze to return, the while these words were being spoken. It was impossible to gather from his reddened, immobile face, now, any notion of their effect upon him. But after a moment’s pause, he rose to his feet, squared his shoulders and put out his hand to Christian.
“Quite right; I’ll go,” he said, abruptly.
The two men shook hands, with a sense of magnetic communion which could have amazed no one more than themselves. Then, under a recurring consciousness of embarrassed constraint, they turned away from each other, and Edward wandered off awkwardly toward the door.
“Oh—a moment more,” called Christian, with a step in his cousin’s direction. Then on second thoughts he added: “Or shall we let that wait? I will see you again—some time to-day or to-morrow. Yes—leave me now for a minute with your brother.”
When the door had closed upon Edward, Christian turned slowly to Augustine, and, as he leaned once more against the table, regarded him with a ruminating scrutiny.
“I am puzzled about you,” he remarked, thoughtfully.
Augustine returned the gaze with visible perturbation.
“I think,” pursued Christian, “that it rather annoys me that you don’t tell me to puzzle and be damned.”
The other took the words with a grimace, and an unhappy little laugh. He, too, rose to his feet. “I funked it,” he said with rueful candor.