"Where is Papa?" asked an agitated voice. It was Mabel who addressed him, her face whiter, if possible, than ever.
Waller pointed with his sword towards the Pass and mournfully shook his head.
"Wounded?"
"Oh, my darling—killed, and poor young Devereaux, too, I greatly fear."
Mabel heard him as if turned to stone. Rose gone, and now her father too! Poor Denzil she never thought of, for great grief is selfish at times.
"Dearest Mabel," said Waller, "I do not ask you 'to compose yourself,' as people always say in such cases; I am a bad comforter perhaps—can't quote Scripture and all that sort of thing. The poor old man had not many years before him any way, and I can only implore you to submit to the will of God."
But she could only weep upon his breast, heedless of those around them.
"Where was he struck?" she asked, in a choking voice.
"I don't know," replied Waller, looking down.
"Did he die easily?"