I saw the curtain on the other side pulled a little, and the face of Sir Charles Scarburgh all in shadow peer in: it looked very lean and sharp and high-browed. The King flapped his hand in a gesture of dismissal, and the face vanished again.
"Sir," whispered I, very earnestly, yet so low that I think none but he could have heard me. "Sir: it is Roger Mallock—"
"Mallock," repeated the voice; yet so low that it could not have been understood by any but me. His face was very near to me; and it was shockingly lined and patched, and the eyes terribly hollow and languid: but there was intelligence in them.
"Sir," said I, "you spoke to me once of an apostleship."
"So I did," murmured the voice. "So I—"
"Sir: I am come to fulfill it. It is not too late. Sir; the Bishops are sent for. Have nothing to say to them! Sir, let me get you a true priest—For Christ's sake!"
The cold fingers that I yet held, twitched and pressed on mine. I was sure that he understood.
He drew a long breath.
"And what of poor little Ken?" he murmured. "Poor little Ken: he will break his heart—if he may not say his prayers."
"Let him say what he will, Sir. But no sacrament! Let me send for a priest!"