The Prince crossed the room to quench it, as he moved Mr. Bromley called out rapidly—
“I was shot through the lungs in my first engagement; I died in a cottage outside Utrecht; I was shot through the lungs; I am writing to Harry.” He suddenly laughed. “I am glad I saw those French players before I left the Hague.… I shall never get another chance.”
William had turned out the lamp, they were left with only the light of the tallow candle on the mantelpiece.
The Prince came back to his gentleman, who lay in a half stupor, pulling at his coverlet with clumsy fingers.
“Bromley,” his young master bent over him, “you are dying.… I must tell you.… We have no clergyman, but you could pray——”
“No Calvinist,” muttered Mr. Bromley.
“God,” said the Prince vehemently, “knows no creed.”
Mr. Bromley gave a little sigh, as if his mind had suddenly cleared.
“Is not Your Highness in despair?” he asked weakly.
“Why?”