“Yes, that is true; it is all true! And you never saw your father—you never went to him?”
“I was only thirteen when I ran away with Karl. When I appeared before my father in Paris last year he would have sent me away in anger, if it had not been that I knew matters of importance to Austria—Austria, always Austria!”
“Yes; that was quite like him,” said the Ambassador. “He served his country with a passionate devotion. He hated America—he distrusted the whole democratic idea. It was that which pointed his anger against you—that you should have chosen to live here.”
“Then when I saw him at Geneva—that last interview—he told me that Karl’s statement had been stolen, and he had his spies abroad looking for the thieves. He was very bitter against me. It was only a few hours before he was killed, as a part of the Winkelried conspiracy. He had given his life for Austria. He told me never to see him again—never to claim my own name until I had done something for Austria. And I went to Vienna and knelt in the crowd at his funeral, and no one knew me, and it hurt me, oh, it hurt me to know that he had grieved for me; that he had wanted a son to carry on his own work, while I had grown away from the whole idea of such labor as his. And now—”
He faltered, his hoarse voice broke with stress of feeling, and his pallor deepened.
“It was not my fault—it was really not my fault! I did the best I could, and, by God, I’ve got them in the room there where they can’t do any harm!—and Dick Claiborne, you are the finest fellow in the world, and the squarest and bravest, and I want to take your hand before I go to sleep; for I’m sick—yes, I’m sick—and sleepy—and you’d better haul down that flag over the door—it’s treason, I tell you!—and if you see Shirley, tell her I’m John Armitage—tell her I’m John Armitage, John Arm—”
The room and its figures rushed before his eyes, and as he tried to stand erect his knees crumpled under him, and before they could reach him he sank to the floor with a moan. As they crowded about he stirred slightly, sighed deeply, and lay perfectly still.
CHAPTER XXVII
DECENT BURIAL
To-morrow? ’Tis not ours to know
That we again shall see the flowers.
To-morrow is the gods’—but, oh! To day is ours.