I shook my head, and he led away his horse to give him a rub and a feed.
Meantime the doctor, who was of the army and had seen service, was examining his patient. He grew more and more puzzled as he noted the various symptoms. Finally he broke out:
“What have you been doing to him? Why is he in this condition? This fleabite doesn't account for all,” pointing to the wound.
We stood like children reproved. Then The Duke said, hesitatingly:
“I fear, doctor, the life has been a little too hard for him. He had a severe nervous attack—seeing things, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” stormed the old doctor. “I know you well enough, with your head of cast-iron and no nerves to speak of. I know the crowd and how you lead them. Infernal fools! You'll get your turn some day. I've warned you before.”
The Duke was standing up before the doctor during this storm, smiling slightly. All at once the smile faded out and he pointed to the bed. Bruce was sitting up quiet and steady. He stretched out his hand to The Duke.
“Don't mind the old fool,” he said, holding The Duke's hand and looking up at him as fondly as if he were a girl. “It's my own funeral—funeral?” he paused—“Perhaps it may be—who knows?—feel queer enough—but remember, Duke—it's my own fault—don't listen to those bally fools,” looking towards Moore and the doctor. “My own fault”—his voice died down—“my own fault.”
The Duke bent over him and laid him back on the pillow, saying, “Thanks, old chap, you're good stuff. I'll not forget. Just keep quiet and you'll be all right.” He passed his cool, firm hand over the hot brow of the man looking up at him with love in his eyes, and in a few moments Bruce fell asleep. Then The Duke lifted himself up, and facing the doctor, said in his coolest tone:
“Your words are more true than opportune, doctor. Your patient will need all your attention. As for my morals, Mr. Moore kindly entrusts himself with the care of them.” This with a bow toward The Pilot.