"True friend," said he softly, "ever loyal! Do not grieve, Albert; it must be for the best. I am happy, quite happy. Let me clasp your hand. Ah, heaven was good in giving me such a friend!"
His voice became more and more broken; the last sentence I could understand only by following closely the movements of his lips. What could I say? I could not bid him hope; we both knew he was dying, and that, in fact, his very moments were numbered. So I sat there in the gathering gloom, holding his hand, and at intervals wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
He spoke again, but now his mind wandered, and his thoughts drifted back to the happy days of our youth. He recalled past events, smiling or frowning as they pleased or angered him in the days gone by. Then for a time he lay still, but suddenly, as if coming to his senses, he looked up straight into my face.
"Good-bye," he murmured. "Tell Marie. The open space—the guns and the hoof-beats. Strange, strange!"
And that was the end of it! Raoul was dead! How I mourned for him none can ever know: it is not seemly to lay bare the inmost secrets of our hearts to the gaze of curious eyes.
Raoul was dead, and on the very threshold of life.
We took him to St. Denis with many another gallant cavalier who had ridden out joyously to the fight with the cry of "For the King!" on his lips. The monks buried him in a plot of consecrated ground without the monastery walls, and Turenne, who recognised his worth, attended the funeral. Stalwart John Humphreys, who had been chosen to guard the young King, was there also. He had loved the dead man dearly, and though he could say nothing to lessen my bitter grief, yet somehow his presence comforted me.
The next day I despatched Pillot with the star and a letter to Aunay, paid a farewell visit to Raoul's grave, and before the sun had gained his full power was riding sword in hand at Turenne's side. For in warfare action alone must be the solace for one's private griefs.