So, with kind-hearted Trevor Chute, the subsequent time was passed in a species of nightmare, amid which some catastrophe seemed to have happened, but the truth of which his mind failed to grasp or realize; and mourning for his friend as he would for a brother, they got through the hot and dreary hours of the Indian night, he scarcely knew how.
About gunfire, and just when dawn was empurpling the snowy summits of the vast hills that overshadow the Deyrah Dhoon, the doctor came and said to him, with professional coolness:
'Poor Jack Beverley is going fast; I wish you would do your best to amuse him.'
'Amuse him?' repeated Chute, indignantly.
'Yes; but no doubt you will find it difficult to do so, when you know the poor fellow is dying.'
In the grey dawn his appearance was dreadful, yet he was quite cool and collected, though weaker than a little child—he who but yesterday had been in all the strength and glory of manhood when in its prime!
'The regiment is under orders for home,' said he, speaking painfully, feebly, and at long intervals. 'Dear old friend, you will see her—Ida—and give my darling all the mementoes of me that you deem proper to take: my V.C. and all that sort of thing; among others, this gipsy ring; it was her first gift to me; and see, the tiger's cruel teeth have broken it quite in two! I have had a little sleep, and I dreamt of her (God bless her for ever!)—dreamt of her plainly and distinctly as I see you now, old fellow, for I know that we are en rapport—and we shall soon meet, moreover.'
'En rapport again!' thought Chute; 'what can he—what does he mean?'
'Promise me that you will do what I ask of you, and break to my darling, as gently as possible, the mode in which I died.'
Trevor Chute promised all that his friend required of him, especially that he should see Ida personally.