"Ah, the princess!" he said, collectedly. "May I trouble you with a message?"
"Certainly."
"It is for papa," he said, dreamily. "Will you tell him for me, please—" Here his voice died away, and his dark, beseeching eyes rolled from one to another of the people in the room.
"Shall I send them away?" asked the princess.
"No, thank you. It is only the pain. Will you—will you be good enough to tell papa not to think me a coward? I promised him to hold out, but—"
"I will tell him."
"And tell him I'm sorry we couldn't build that home and live together, but I think if he prepared it mamma and the children might go. Tell him I think they would be happier. America is so lovely! Mamma would get used to it."
He stopped, panting for breath, and one of the nurses put something on his lips, while the other wiped away the drops of moisture that the effort of speaking had brought to his spectral face. Then he closed his eyes, and his pallid figure seemed to be sinking away from us; but presently he roused himself, and this time his glance fell on me.
"Miss Canada," he said, drowsily, "the salute to the flag—Dottie and Howard."
The princess motioned to one of the nurses, who slipped from the room and presently returned with the children. A wan, evanescent flush overspread his face at sight of the flag, and he tried to raise himself on his elbow. One of the nurses supported him, and he fixed his glazing but still beautiful eyes on the children. "Are you ready?"