“Father!”
Sir Arthur opened his eyes. He was drawing deep, gasping breaths, the strong life in him wrestling still. But the helplessness, the ineffable surrender and defeat of man’s last hour, was in his face.
Falloden knelt down.
“Father!—don’t you know me? Well soon carry you home. It’s Duggy!” No answer. Radowitz had gone a few yards away, and was also kneeling, his face buried in his hands, his back turned to the father and son.
Douglas made another agonised appeal, and the grey face quivered. A whisper passed the lips.
“It’s best, Duggy—poor Duggy! Kiss me, old boy. Tell your mother—that young man—prayed for me. She’ll like to—know that. My love—”
The last words were spoken with a great effort; and the breaths that followed grew slower and slower as the vital tide withdrew itself. Once more the eyes opened, and Douglas saw in them the old affectionate look. Then the lips shaped themselves again to words that made no sound; a shudder passed through the limbs—their last movement.
Douglas knelt on, looking closely into his father’s face, listening for the breath that came no more. He felt rather than saw that Radowitz had moved still further away.
Two or three deep sobs escaped him—involuntary, almost unconscious. Then he pulled himself together. His mother? Who was to tell her?
He went to call Radowitz, who came eagerly.