I did not even glance at him as he lay, covered with dust and blackened by the smoke of his beloved nine-pounders, a little to the left of Noon and behind me as I knelt at the latter’s side. After a while his eyes grew brighter and he began to look about him.
He turned his head, painfully, for the muscles of his neck were injured, and caught sight of the gunner’s uniform. “Is that Berlyng?” he asked, excitedly. “Yes.”
He dragged himself up and tried to get nearer to Berlyng. And I helped him. They were close alongside each other. Berlyng was lying on his back, staring up at the blue patches between the pine-trees.
Noon turned on his left elbow and began whispering into the smoke-grimed ear.
“Berlyng,” I heard him say, “I was a blackguard. I am sorry, old man. I played it very low down. It was a dirty trick. It was my money—and her people were anxious for her to marry a rich man. I worked it through her people. I wanted her so badly that I forgot I—was supposed—to be a—gentleman. I found out—that it was you—she cared for. But I couldn’t make up my mind to give her up. I kept her—to her word. And now it’s all up with me—but you’ll pull through and it will all—come right. Give her my—love—old chap. You can now—because I’m done. I’m glad they brought you in—because I’ve been able—to tell you—that it is you she cares for. You—Berlyng, old chap, who used to be a chum of mine. She cares for you—God, you’re in luck! I don’t know whether she’s told you—and I was—a d—d blackguard.”
His jaw suddenly dropped—and he rolled forward with his face against Berlyng’s shoulder.
Berlyng was dead when they brought him in. He had heard nothing. Or perhaps he had heard and understood—everything.
Henry Seton Merriman.