“Worse—”
“Worse!—what, dead?”
“Dead!” was the suppressed reply.
“How?—when?—where? I know the worst;—go on, St. Pierre.”
“Colonel La Coste, my heart bleeds to tell the story. Henri, your adopted son, and our beloved companion, is, indeed, no more! The felon leader, who has escaped us for the present, singled your nephew out and stabbed him!”
“Great God!—Henri!—my son, my hope, my pride, fallen—and thus to fall! Die in the court-yard of an obscure posada, and perish ingloriously like a peasant in a drunken brawl—Henri! Henri!”
A long and melancholy pause succeeded.
“Where is my nephew?” exclaimed the old man, suddenly.
“Here,” returned Captain St. Pierre, and his voice faltered.
“Well, let me see thee, Henri, even though it be in death.”