They all approached slowly, and stood with bent heads, gazing with mute and mournful faces on the white majestic features of Harrington. He lay, half reclined, his head supported by the cushions, and rising with something of its old martial carriage from the massive breast, while he looked upon them, sweet and regnant, with bright, dying eyes.
“Dear friends,” said he, in a voice hollow and low, but firm and clear, “you will remember to keep all that has happened secret. It is my last request.”
There was a brief interval of silence.
“Come close to me,” he said, looking at the Captain.
The old man knelt down beside him, weeping, and put his arms around him.
“Kind father,” said the low, sweet voice, “my own father’s friend, the true friend of my mother, so good and faithful to me, I love you dearly, and I bless you. Give my fond love to the poor wife and the children, and tell them we shall all meet hereafter. I wish I could have seen them, but it has been ordered otherwise. No matter: we shall meet again.”
There was a long silence. Then rising, still weeping bitterly, and unable to speak a word, the old man grasped for a moment the cold hands of him he loved like his own children, and turned away sobbing.
“Come, Bagasse,” said Harrington, trying to lift his arms to him.
With a sudden movement, the Frenchman threw himself upon one knee beside him, clasped him in his arms, and kissed him on each cheek.
“Hah! I lof you,” he cried hoarsely, with a visage of glowing iron, and an eye of fire. “I lof you wis my heart, my life. See: I die vair soon. It is sixtee year old wis me. Soon I die and come to you. Ah, brave, kind, tendair zhentilman, you go off vair young! You lof evairybody so much zat ze dam world will not haf no place for you. You go to ze good God. Ask Him zoo par-don ze vair bad life of old Bagasse zat he may come stay wis you. Zen I am happy, happy.”