Then one of those strange things occurred which at times almost make us think that brutes have souls and reason. For, before the young soldier could reply, the brown horse, which had followed the bearers of his master to the entrance of the arbour, and paused there, as if conscious that he must not enter, no sooner heard his own name uttered in those feeble accents, than he thrust his head through the foliage and uttered a long, low, plaintive neigh, utterly unlike any sound he had ever before been heard to utter.
"Ah! thou art there, old friend. God bless thee, too, if it be no sin so to pray. Thou wilt be cared for; will he not, Gordon—Julia?"
But neither could reply for sobbing. He understood the reason, and said once again:
"Bless you all—may God bless you. Remember that I die a Chris—a Christian. I am go—going. Gordon, Gordon, let her—let her kiss—kiss me, Julia."
"Kiss him, quick; kiss him, kiss him, Julia."
She knelt beside him, bent her beautiful form over his bosom, and pressed her cold lips to his, and the pure spirit of the noble and high-minded soldier passed away in that last—that first embrace of the woman he had loved so chastely, so devotedly, so nobly.
Happy who so die, in the arms of love, religion, honour.
More words are almost needless. Julia and Gordon, under the guidance of the gallant rangers, reached the lines at Monterey in safety. Long did they mourn over that true and noble friend, who, though the friend but of a day, had stamped himself on their souls forever.
Poor Marguerita never ceased to weep for the man she loved so madly and so vainly, till, in the convent which she entered within a month of his death, her sorrows and sufferings were ended.