“He is stab,” said Bagasse, in a low, hoarse voice of heart-breaking pathos. “He is stab, and he bleed inside him. Ah, my fren’ is stab, and he die, die, die. Oh my old, old vair seek heart, what will I do wis you? My fren’, Missr Harrin’ton, so good, so kind, so brave, so tendair as ze woman, zat nurse me like ze littel babe in my seekness, zat come to me when evairy ozzer one stay off, zat look at me and I was glad, zat take my hand and I was glad, zat make my old life glad wis ze lof of him, he is go away out of zis dam world to die, die, die. Oh, miseree, miseree!”
“Hush, hush, Bagasse!” faltered Harrington, hardly able to speak for emotion. “Hush, old friend. We must all die sometime. Don’t grieve. There, there. It will soon be over. Richard, dear Richard, don’t weep so. Captain, friend, father, do not break my heart. Come, come, bear up, bear up.”
“Oh, Harrington,” sobbed Wentworth, throwing himself upon his breast, “what will life be to me if you die! And Muriel—my God, this will kill her! To lose you in this way, three days after her wedding. She never can survive it.”
“No, Richard,” said Harrington, calmly. “Muriel will bear her loss with a brave heart. Both she and I knew that we were not to meet again when I parted from her to-night. We had spiritual warning of this.”
“You had spiritual warning of this?” said Wentworth, awed from his wild grief into calm.
“Yes,” murmured Harrington, “in presentments and in dreams. Both of us. We were both prepared for it. I came here expecting to die, and I was surprised when the conflict was over to find myself, as I believed, unharmed. I felt strangely weak, but I thought it the exhaustion of excitement, and it was not till I entered the boat that I became conscious of a heavy feeling and a little smarting in my breast, and discovered that I was stabbed.”
“Haven’t ye no idee when it was done, John?” gasped the Captain, weeping.
“Not the least,” replied Harrington, hollowly. “I was not aware that any of the men touched me during the whole fray.”
Bagasse rose from his knees, and turning away, stood in a stupor of despair, with his head bent upon his chest and his arms tightly folded.
“Oh, Harrington, Harrington!” cried Wentworth, “how could you go on this accursed enterprise! How could you leave Muriel, loving her so much, when you knew that you were to die! Your love for her should have kept you”—