By degrees he became calmer; the wild light died from his eyes; he ceased to mutter, and presently looked into my face with a reasoning though puzzled expression.
"George Botskay," I said, trying to help his memory. "Don't you know? You stood my friend in Vienna."
He smiled faintly, but with intelligence, and, moving his hand, pointed to the window, as if wishing to direct my attention to something outside.
"The barricade?" I ventured questioningly.
He smiled again and dropped his hand in mine.
"Good lad," he murmured; "I saw and understood--afterwards."
"I am sorry," I began; but he checked me, saying,--
"A soldier's death, my boy. That is best--for me."
He was getting very weak now, and I heard him with great difficulty.
Some words I did not hear at all, and others only imperfectly; but I managed to understand what he wished done, and promised to do it.