“He is gone,” said the doctor.
“Gone?” cried Moira. “Gone? Ochone, but he was the gallant gentleman!” she wailed, lapsing into her Highland speech. “Oh, but he had the brave heart and the true heart. Ochone! Ochone!” She swayed back and forth upon her knees with hands clasped and tears running down her cheeks, bending over the white face that lay so still in the moonlight and touched with the majesty of death.
“Come, Moira! Come, Moira!” said her brother surprised at her unwonted display of emotion. “You must control yourself.”
“Leave her alone. Let her cry. She is in a hard spot,” said Dr. Martin in a sharp voice in which grief and despair were mingled.
Cameron glanced at his friend's face. It was the face of a haggard old man.
“You are used up, old boy,” he said kindly, putting his hand on the doctor's arm. “You need rest.”
“Rest?” said the doctor. “Rest? Not I. But you do. And you too, Miss Moira,” he added gently. “Come,” giving her his hand, “you must get home.” There was in his voice a tone of command that made the girl look up quickly and obey.
“And you?” she said. “You must be done.”
“Done? Yes, but what matter? Take her home, Cameron.”
“And what about you?” inquired Cameron.