"I've a letter,—in my carpet-sack, in our tent. I wrote it last night. It's to Lizzy,—you will deliver it, Doctor?"
"I will. Yes."
"It may be lost now,—there is such confusion in the camp. The key is in my right pocket,—inside the spectacle-case: have you got it?"
"Yes."
Blecker could hardly keep back a smile: even the pocket-furniture was neatly ordered in the hour of death.
"If it is lost,"—turning his head restlessly,—"light your lantern, Blecker, it is so dark,—if it is,—tell her"—his voice was gone. "Tell her," lifting himself suddenly, with the force of death, "to be pure and true. My loving little girl, Lizzy,—wife." Blecker drew his head on his shoulder. "I thought—the holidays were coming,"—closing his eyes again wearily,—"for us. But God knows. All right!"
His lips moved, but the sound was inaudible; he smiled cheerfully, held Paul's hand closer, and then his head grew heavy as lead, being nothing but clay. For the true knight and loyal gentleman was gone to the Master of all honor, to learn a broader manhood and deeds of higher emprise.
Paul Blecker stood silent a moment, and then covered the homely, kind face reverently.
"I would as lief have seen a woman die," he said, and turned away.
Two or three men came up, carrying others on a broken door and on a fence-board.