“They tell me the fort is safe—that the Indians have retreated to the woods,” he whispered faintly.
“Yes, they have been beaten off,” I replied, “and with heavy loss.”
“Thank God!” he murmured. “They will hardly make another attack. All will go well now. Menzies, have you sent for Miss Hatherton?” he added.
“Yes, she will soon be here.”
The dying man lifted his head a little, looking at me with a smile. The doctor poured some strong liquor between his lips, and it instantly brought a brightness to his eyes and a tinge of color to his cheeks.
“That will keep me up for a time,” he whispered. “I have something to say to Mr. Carew, and I wish it to be as private as possible. You and the doctor must remain, Menzies, but the rest—”
A spasm of pain stopped him, and while he writhed with it all the men who were in the room, save we three kneeling by him, stepped quietly outside. He grew more comfortable in a moment, glanced wistfully at the door, and put a cold hand in one of mine.
“Denzil, my boy, it is only a question of a few minutes,” he said, in a low voice. “I am dying at my post, and without regret. It is better so. I nearly made a mistake, but I saw it in time. I know your secret—I suspected it days ago. You love Miss Hatherton—”
“It is true,” I interrupted hoarsely. “Forgive me, my old friend, and believe that I would not for the world have wronged you in thought or deed. I would have left the fort long ago, had you given consent—”
“Hush! there is nothing to forgive,” he murmured. “Mine was the mistake—mine the blame. It is only natural that you should have loved each other. I was too old to mate with one so young and fair. I had made up my mind to release her from her promise—to give her to you, Denzil.”