To that cabin below the whole company repaired in all speed in the surgeon’s wake, Sir Oliver coming last between his guards. They assembled about the couch where Lionel lay, leaden-hued of face, his breathing laboured, his eyes dull and glazing.
Sir John ran to him, went down upon one knee to put loving arms about that chilling clay, and very gently raised him in them, and held him so resting against his breast.
“Lionel!” he cried in stricken accents. And then as if thoughts of vengeance were to soothe and comfort his sinking friend’s last moments, he added: “We have the villain fast.”
Very slowly and with obvious effort Lionel turned his head to the right, and his dull eyes went beyond Sir John and made quest in the ranks of those that stood about him.
“Oliver?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Where is Oliver?”
“There is not the need to distress you....” Sir John was beginning, when Lionel interrupted him.
“Wait!” he commanded in a louder tone. “Is Oliver safe?”
“I am here,” said Sir Oliver’s deep voice, and those who stood between him and his brother drew aside that they might cease from screening him.
Lionel looked at him for a long moment in silence, sitting up a little. Then he sank back again slowly against Sir John’s breast.
“God has been merciful to me a sinner,” he said, “since He accords me the means to make amends, tardily though it be.”