As I have much to relate, instead of impertinently thrusting any more love scenes before the reader, I must beseech him or her to imagine all my meeting with Ernestine, and to believe that the keen sense of joy which the poor girl experienced on beholding me again, was considerably abated and tempered by the terrible plight in which her father's oldest and best friend was brought on board of the king's ship.
Phadrig knocked at the cabin door, and with the most soldier-like unconcern announced that the count was dying, and required my presence. Ernestine burst into tears, and threw herself upon her knees to pray, while I hurried along the lower deck (breaking my shins against stray shot, coils of rope, and buckets of wadding) to reach the poor and comfortless berth, in which one of the bravest spirits that ever endued with life a Scottish breast was hovering between Eternity and Time.
As I went into the little cabin, the doctor was coming softly and slowly out, with the air of a man who could do no more. His sleeves were tucked up, and his hands were covered with blood.
"Doctor!" said I; he shook his head, and passed on.
Swinging by a rusty chain from a beam of the main deck, an iron lamp lighted the scene I am about to describe. Its smoky and sickly radiance shed a wavering and yellow gloom on the sloping walls of dark Memel wood, the strong transverse beams, the knotty planks, and iron bolts of the ship; on the brass culverins, which were laid alongside the closed parts, the rammers, spunges, and other et cetera, beside them; and on the poor pallet spread on the cabin floor, whereon lay Kœningheim, breathing heavily; his features ghastly, and sharpened by pain and loss of blood, and contrasting by their pallor with the blackness of his mustaches and hair, the long cavalier locks of which were scattered over the pillow like those of a girl. His eyes were closed. His fine manly neck and breast were bare, save where the latter was crossed by a bandage, from beneath which the blood was oozing.
Several officers were standing near; Danes in red dresses; Dutchmen in yellow; and two of ours—these were Kildon and Culcraigie, who were as soldier-like as their weatherbeaten visages, grizzled beards, and picturesque costume—steel cuirasses and buff coats laced with silver—could make them. They stood placidly waiting until the poor Scoto-Imperialist should die.
Though I trod lightly, his ear detected the sound as I entered, and knelt down by his side.
"Ah!" said he, opening his eyes; "it is you—I had almost forgotten; but for this exquisite agony I could imagine that a sleep was coming over me. It is the sleep, Rollo—the drowsy sleep—of death!"
I took his hand in mine; alas! it was cold and clammy. "Count Kœningheim, you wished to speak with me."
"I have something to tell you," said he; "something which I do not wish others to hear."