"Do you ever," asked Bertie, speaking slowly and distinctly, as if he might thereby make him understand what he was saying, "do you ever think of those who--who were once dear to you? If--if--it should please God in His infinite mercy that, some day, perhaps in some far-off, remote day, I may depart from here, and you--may not--not accompany me, is there any word, any message, you would wish to send?"
Still Fordingbridge shrank from him, creeping, edging farther away from where he had sat down by his side, but he uttered no word. Only, still his eyes roamed restlessly over Bertie's form, and still his mouth worked convulsively as ever, and his hands twitched.
"Think. Reflect, I beseech you," the man whom he had wronged so much continued, "you are not well--you may--at any moment--be worse. And I, forgetful of the past, would, if it ever comes into my power, very willingly do this for you. Fordingbridge, you may trust me. As I sit by you to-night, I cast away for ever from my memory the evil you have wrought me; I desire only that, if I can, I may serve you. Can I do nothing?"
And still the other shrank from him, understanding, perhaps, not one word that he said. Once more, however, Bertie continued:
"If you can comprehend me, I pray you do so. Think, remember. You had a wife once; before God I believe she is your wife now, and always has been; I do not believe that you deceived her. Have you no word for her, no plea for pardon, no request that, as time goes on, she may come to think of you without bitterness? Also there are others--Archibald Sholto and Douglas----"
A cry from the maniacal lips interrupted him--a hoarse cry such as an Animal in pain, an animal that had been struck suddenly and unawares, might utter.
"Douglas! Douglas! Douglas!" he shrieked. "Douglas! Douglas!" and so continued muttering that name again and again. Then, with another sound, half wail, half sigh, he flung himself back on his bed, and thus spent his last night on earth. Yet, even on that night, through the whole of which he chattered unintelligible words to himself, he laughed once or twice convulsively, and as though suffocating with suppressed mirth.
* * * * * * *
As the shadows of the night departed and the morning gave signs of breaking, with still the snow-flakes mingling with the rain that beat against the windows of the towers, they came for him--the King's Lieutenant, accompanied by four of the corps de garde.
"Put on your cloak, if you have one," that officer said to the miserable creature shrinking back to the wall, while he shivered all over and uttered his broken cries--"put on your cloak, and come."