The Prince gave the stuff a sick look.
“Get me some water,” he said, putting it down.
“Well,” answered M. Bentinck, with a grim smile, “M. de Zuylestein and M. Beverningh are making a meal.”
The Prince returned to the bed, and in a while M. Bentinck brought the water in a dull green glass.
Matthew Bromley stared up at them.
“Am I dying?” he asked abruptly.
He took the water, drank with avidity, then murmured—
“I must write home.”
M. Bentinck left the room. The heat seemed to increase. Some one was reciting a psalm outside in a gabbling voice, another groaned bitterly.
The swinging lamp was going out with a harsh stench of oil.