So the ten years had passed in strengthening fibres which grew down into native soil, and the old man and young one had been drawn very near to each other.
And now Sir Henry was dying.
Michael's hand fell listless on the great head of Comrade, the deerhound, as he sat opposite to the little, black-coated doctor who took his snuff and ran nervous fingers through his wig, as his manner was in breaking ill news.
This young man, with the white, set face and enigmatical grey eyes, disturbed him far more than the vapourings and hysterical screaming with which my lady received the news of the passing of my lord.
"He is dying?"
"I regret very greatly to say—yes, Mr. Michael. It is a case of inflammation around the heart. I fear——"
"May I go to him?"
"As I was about to say, Mr. Michael, Sir Henry has asked to see you. Any moment——"
"Any moment?"
"May be his last. The valves of the heart being——"