'Begin at the beginning!—don't say that,' said Sir Piers.
'Why, general?'
'Because it reminds me how a poor fellow of Ours used those very words when about to relate some secret to me, as he lay dying by the roadside, on the march to Malwah, and though he began at the beginning I never heard the end of his story; so we buried him beneath a palm-tree, in his cotton quilt, the only coffin we could afford him—poor old Sandy Freeport—the father of Dick who is in the Cameronians now; and I remember that John Garth read the funeral service over him by torch-light. Now fire away, Balderstone.'
The latter gazed fondly and admiringly on Mary in all her delicate beauty, clad in a loosely made brown holland morning-dress, relieved only by the spotless white cuffs at the snowy wrists, and a simple collar of the same at her slender throat, and said:
'I have some strange tidings for you, Sir Piers—tidings which may seriously shock your nerves.'
'Never! d—n it, John Balderstone, speak out, sir!' said the baronet with irritation. 'Who the devil ever heard of an old Cameronian with nerves! And these tidings——'
'Concern your son—your only son Piers.'
'What of him—now?' asked the other in a changed and rather broken voice.
'His fate—his story.'
'Piers is dead,' said the baronet hoarsely, as he recalled the shadowy form—the dim, yet distinct outline—he had seen on the night of terror, so long ago.