“He is coming,” said Moore, confidently, though how he knew I could not tell. But even as he spoke, looking out of the window, I saw Jingo come swinging round the bluff. Bruce heard the beat of his hoofs, smiled, opened his eyes and waited. The leap of joy in his eyes as The Duke came in, clean, cool and fresh as the morning, went to my heart.
Neither man said a word, but Bruce took hold of The Duke's hand in both of his. He was fast growing weaker. I gave him brandy, and he recovered a little strength.
“I am dying, Duke,” he said, quietly. “Promise you won't blame yourself.”
“I can't, old man,” said The Duke, with a shudder. “Would to heaven I could.”
“You were too strong for me, and you didn't think, did you?” and the weak voice had a caress in it.
“No, no! God knows,” said The Duke, hurriedly.
There was a long silence, and again Bruce opened his eyes and whispered:
“The Pilot.”
Moore came to him.
“Read 'The Prodigal,'” he said faintly, and in Moore's clear, sweet voice the music of that matchless story fell upon our ears.