And the beautiful brown horse whinnied as he heard the long-loved voice, and advanced a yard or two, and rubbed his muzzle gently and fondly over the face of his dying master.
"Good horse, good Emperor," said the Partisan, patting the face of his horse with his failing hand. "I never shall back you again, good Emperor. He is yours, Gordon, when I am gone. You will be kind to him, I know."
The young dragoon wrung the hand of the dying man hard, and the big tears burst in volumes from his eyes, and fell down like rain upon the face of the veteran.
"Go forward," he said, faintly; "go forward, Gordon, and apprise the ladies. Women are tender plants, and this, I think, will shock them."
And slowly they did bear him, with the beautiful brown horse following them step by step with his head bent almost to the dust, and trailing his long, thin mane on the ground, in the depth of animal sorrow.
When Gordon reached the bower the surgeon was fastening up his case, having dressed young Alava's wound, and was on the point of going to offer his services, he said, where they might be more seriously required.
The young soldier caught his last words as he entered, and arresting him by the arm, said, earnestly, in a low voice, even before he replied to the congratulations of the women:
"That is here, Maxwell; nowhere can they be more required than they will be here. God send that they may avail."
Though uttered in a whisper, Julia heard his words, and judging from the expression of his face, clasped her hands, and cried, earnestly:
"Not the Partisan, Arthur—oh, say it is not the Partisan."