“He nodded, more with his eyelids than with his head, then, bracing himself with pain for the effort, he whispered,—
“‘You won’t stay on here?’
“I answered, ‘No,’ feeling that to adopt a reassuring, hearty attitude would be an insult to the man.
“After a long pause he said,—
“‘I want to be buried up here. By the ruins. I don’t care about consecrated ground.’
“An appalling attack of sickness interrupted him, after which he lay in such complete exhaustion that I thought he would never speak again. But after about half an hour, he resumed,—
“‘Give me your word of honour. They will try to prevent you.’
“I swore it—poor devil.
“‘Bury me deep,’ he said with a grim, twisted smile, ‘or some one will excavate me.’
“He seemed a little stronger, but I knew the recovery could only be fictitious. Then he went on,—