“I’m slipping,” said the Professor simply. He closed his eyes, and presently reopened them as with difficulty. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Give me the word, sir, give me the word. What in Heaven’s name,” with sudden indignation, “is the use of having a prompter if—”
Rosalind, keeping her tears back, came with the heavy volume, opening it quickly at the place where a ringletted youth in a steel engraving was addressing soldiers.
Erb discovering the lines with the aid of Rosalind’s finger, gave the cue. “For he to-day—” The old Professor goes on.
“‘For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my be-rother! be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition, And gentlemen in England, And gentlemen in England.’ No use,” said the Professor weakly, “my study’s gone.”
“Don’t bother about it, sir.”
“Laddie,” said the Professor, “you—you think me a thriftless, miserable wastrel.”
“No, no,” answered Erb. “Not that exactly. But we’re none of us perfect.”
“I’ve reached me last hour, and the time has come for plain speech. I’ve been—” a smile dared to creep halfway across the Professor’s face. “I’ve been a fraud.”
“Father,” said Rosalind brokenly. “You’ve always been the dearest, dearest—”
The boy doctor, snatching the opportunity to whisper to Erb, who could not lose the Professor’s hand, said that he had administered a sleeping draught: if the Professor desired to say anything it would be better to allow him to speak without interruption.