CHAPTER III
“Oh, must this day be period of my life?”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
As Vytal turned from Frazer his face changed. The look of cold hate gave way to an even deeper expression of sadness, which, mellowing his bleak visage as the sunset glow softens the outlines of a rock, bespoke tender concern and apprehension.
Around Roger a crowd had gathered, to the centre of which Vytal gravely made his way.
The soldier lay prone and silent, the bearskin, which had been folded, forming a pillow for his head. He had evidently regained consciousness, yet from his bared chest a stream of blood welled slowly. Frazer’s weapon had pierced a lung.
Beside him knelt Hugh Rouse, imploring him to speak. “Call me names, Roger; berate me an you will for sleeping; but say ’tis no mortal wound.”
A chirurgeon who stood near by shook his head. “’Tis, indeed, mortal,” he declared.
And Roger’s eyes rolling up to the chirurgeon’s face seemed to repeat, “Yes, mortal.”
As the firelight was now obscured by the crowd, several soldiers, snatching resinous branches from the blaze, held them aloft to look once more upon their comrade’s face. Vytal bent over the dying man. “Dost know me, Roger?”