“Amen.”
Matthew Bromley’s life was sinking fast; like a sea receding was the blue light in his eyes, each second farther away.
William went on his knees by the aperture of the bed.
“In Thee, Lord, have I put my trust; let me never be put to confusion, but rid me and deliver me in Thy righteousness; incline Thine ear unto me and save me——”
Mr. Bromley stretched out his cold, pale hand.
“I thank Your Highness.”
“Do not think of me but of God.”
The two young men, both so white, so haggard, so dishevelled, that the one drawing his last breath was hardly to be told from him who comforted, clasped hands in the hot shadows of the peasant’s bed.
Mr. Bromley made a movement as if to draw the Prince towards him.
“I would I had lived to see Your Highness fortunate,” he breathed. Then, “God … God … He is very pitiful.…”