"Dead, George?" questioned my uncle Jervas faintly.
"Dead, Jervas!"
"The right eye, George—I think?"
"Yes, Jervas. How is it with you, dear old fellow?"
"Very well—I'm going on—ahead of you, George. Don't—don't grieve, George—'t is none so terrible. And the great conundrum is answered, the mystery is solved, George—I mean—our Julia—she will—marry you, George, after all—I think she always loved you—best. God bless you—both! And Peregrine—my dear lad—your gipsy—a strong—angel of God—Diana—" and with this word his noble spirit passed.
And thus even death was denied me and I, it seemed, was doomed to be no more than an idle spectator.
I remember helping to bear him back to the "Anchor" Inn—laying him reverently upon a settle. And then, because I could not bear to see him so pale and still and silent, I covered him with my cloak.
I remember the tears wet upon Anthony's haggard face and my uncle George crouched in a chair, clenched fists beneath square chin, staring wide-eyed on vacancy.
"Dead!" he exclaimed in an agonised half-whisper. "I mean to say he's dead, d'ye see. Jervas—dead—seems so impossible! If it could only have been me—it wouldn't ha' mattered so much, d'ye see. There never was any one like old Jervas. And now he's—dead, my God!" The agonised whispering ceased and silence fell that was almost as terrible. But suddenly upon this awful hush broke a sound of wheels—quick footsteps; then the door swung open and Diana stood upon the threshold.
"Peregrine!" she cried. "Oh, praise God you are alive—Peregrine—speak to me! Ah—dear God in heaven! What is it?" And hasting to me, she caught my hand, clasping it to her bosom. "Oh, what is it, Peregrine?" she whispered.