She smiled again. He drew a long breath, and turning to the table behind him, took up a letter which was lying there.
"I want you to read that," he said, holding it out to her.
She drew back, with a little, involuntary frown.
He understood.
"Dearest," he cried, pressing her hand passionately, "I have been in the grip of all the powers of death! Read it--be good to me!"
Standing beside him, with his arm round her, she read the melancholy Duke's last words:
/# "My Dear Jacob,--I leave you a heavy task, which I know well is, in your eyes, a mere burden. But, for my sake, accept it. The man who runs away has small right to counsel courage. But you know what my struggle has been. You'll judge me mercifully, if no one else does. There is in you, too, the little, bitter drop that spoils us all; but you won't be alone. You have your wife, and you love her. Take my place here, care for our people, speak of us sometimes to your children, and pray for us. I bless you, dear fellow. The only moments of comfort I have ever known this last year have come from you. I would live on if I could, but I must--must have sleep." #/
Julie dropped the paper. She turned to look at her husband.
"Since I read that," he said, in a low voice, "I have been sitting here alone--or, rather, it is my belief that I have not been alone. But"--he hesitated--"it is very difficult for me to speak of that--even to you. At any rate, I have felt the touch of discipline, of command. My poor cousin deserted. I, it seems"--he drew a long and painful breath--"must keep to the ranks."
"Let us discuss it," said Julie; and sitting down, hand in hand, they talked quietly and gravely.