“Don’t go—”
The agony returned. When Sir Arthur spoke again, it was very feebly.
“I can’t live—through—much more of that. I’m dying. Don’t leave me. Where’s my son? Where’s my son—Douglas? Who are you?”
The glazing eyes tried to make out the features of the stranger. They were too dim to notice the sudden shiver that passed through them as he named his son.
“I can’t get at any one. I’ve been calling for a long time. My name is Radowitz. I’m staying at Penfold Rectory. If I could only carry you! I tried to lift you—but I couldn’t. I’ve only one hand.” He pointed despairingly to the sling he was wearing.
“Tell my son—tell Douglas—”
But the faint voice ceased abruptly, and the eyes closed. Only there was a slight movement of the lips, which Radowitz, bending his ear to the mouth of the dying man, tried to interpret. He thought it said “pray,” but he could not be sure.
Radowitz looked round him in an anguish. No one on the purple side of the moor, no one on the grassy tracks leading downwards to the park; only the wide gold of the evening—the rising of a light wind—the rustling of the fern—and the loud, laboured breathing below him.
He bent again over the helpless form, murmuring words in haste.