“Speak not thus, my dearest friend!” said Colonel Grant, making an effort to command himself, and hastening to support and comfort the wounded man; “trust me you will yet do well. You must live for your poor wife’s sake.”
“No!” replied Inverawe, with deep solemnity. “My hour is come. In vain was it that your kind friendship, and that of the brave Abercromby, succeeded in deceiving me,—for I have seen him—I have seen him terribly,—and this is Ticonderoga!”
“Pardon me, my dear Inverawe, for a deception which was so well intended,” said the Colonel, much agitated. “It is indeed Ticonderoga as you say, but—but—believe me,—that which now disturbs you was only some phantom of your brain, arising from loss of blood and weakness. Cheer up!—Come, man!—Come!—Inverawe!—Merciful Heaven, he is gone!”
END OF VOLUME THIRD.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY T. CONSTABLE,
PRINTER TO HER MAJESTY.
Colophon
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