“This leg of mine is mending.”
The son said nothing.
“I am wondering whether it is worth the mending. A man must die some day; though it is better that he should die like a man, not like a dog.”
There was a minute’s silence. John Gore could hear his father’s breathing, but he went on doggedly with the cleaning of his pistols.
“John.”
My lord spoke softly, almost pleadingly.
“Yes.”
“Will you answer me a few questions?”
“Ask them.”
Again there was a short pause.