Slowly the lips parted as the round head shifted restlessly. “Yea, well; and always I shall know you. Body o’ me! not know Captain Vytal—I, Prat, who have followed him through thick and thin? ’Tis impossible.”
He raised his head and smiled at Rouse. “And you, too, my dwarfish soul—how could I mistake that shock o’ flaxen hair?” He passed a hand over the giant’s head affectionately; then, rising with pain to one elbow, turned again to Vytal.
“You have saved us,” said the captain, “but at what a cost!”
Prat made a deprecatory gesture. “Ay, thank God! saved you,” he replied; “yet have a care. This Frazer hath heard me prating to Rouse anent our weakness. You’ll look to it, no doubt, he conveys not the information to that peacock, the Spanish admiral. But, ah me, the young wild-slip hath killed King Lud. My last pet is departed. Oh, why did I not know his Majesty would never crawl away like a whipped cur? In troth ’twas most unnatural. Yet the darkness favored him—the darkness—i’ faith ’tis even darker now.” With an effort, he put a hand to his belt, and, drawing out the flute that for so long had been silent, held it to his lips. But, without sounding a single strain, he let it fall with one of his old grimaces. “Nay,” he muttered, “not a note; ne’ertheless, when I’m gone, ‘Be merry, friends; a fig for care and a fig for woe; be merry, friends.’” He sank back exhausted and closed his eyes.
“He is dead,” groaned Hugh.
But Roger, with a drawn smile, eyed him sideways. “Not dead by any means, poor dullard. No, not yet dead.”
At this his face brightened for a moment, and he groped in the breast of his doublet near the wound. Several fine threads of gold were woven round his fingers, but no one saw them. “Take nothing from me,” he said; and then, withdrawing his hand, smiled almost bitterly. “’Tis just as well I die, for my life, as the song saith, hath been lived to ‘please one and please all,’ everlastingly ‘please one and please all, so pipeth the crow sitting upon a wall.’ Welladay, let the crow pipe on, but Roger pipeth no longer.”
His bulging eyes flashed suddenly in the cressets’ glare. “Nay, I’m no piper, but a fighting-man,” whereupon, rising once more with a great effort to one elbow, he drew his broadsword and for a moment held it aloft. Then slowly, as the flame died out of his eyes, he pointed with it toward the palisade. “Bury me over there,” he said, eagerly, “beyond the town—over there in the glade, Captain Vytal, near the western shore. ’Tis where she danced, you’ll remember, and King Lud cut capers before the Indians. There I’ll lie in peace, and think o’ the old mirthfulness, and sometimes the sound of your guns will come to remind me I’m a soldier.” He held out the heavy blade to Vytal. “Lay it unsheathed beside me, captain; also the flute and uppowac pipe.” Once again his head fell to the bearskin pillow. “You might shroud me,” he added, feebly, “with all that remains of poor King Lud.”
“It shall be done as you require,” said Vytal, hoarsely.
And now there was silence save for the light rustle through the forest of a new-come breeze, which fanned the tearful cheeks of the watchers and set the many torches flickering so that their light wavered uncertainly across the dying man. Roger’s eyes were closed, yet once more his lips parted. “‘Be merry, friends,’” and, with an old, familiar smile, he died.