Part 68 (1/2)

”Of course not,” said the Duke; ”but stay, I will go down myself.”

There were still a considerable number of persons on foot in the court when the Duke descended, but only one equipage remained,--a hired carriage,--at the open door of which a servant was standing, holding a gla.s.s of water for his master.

”Can I be of any use to your master?” said the Duke, approaching. ”Is he ill?”

”I fear he has burst a blood-vessel, sir,” said the man. ”He is too weak to answer me.”

”Who is it,--what 's his name?”

”I am not able to tell you, sir; I only accompanied him from the hotel.”

”Let us have a doctor at once; he appears to be dying,” said the Duke, as he placed his fingers on the sick man's wrist. ”Let some one go for a physician.”

”There is one here,” cried a voice. ”I'm a doctor;” and Billy Traynor pushed his way to the spot. ”Come, Master Charles, get into the coach and help me to lift him out.”

Young Ma.s.sy obeyed, and not without difficulty they succeeded at last in disengaging the almost lifeless form of a man whose dark domino was perfectly saturated with fresh blood; his half mask still covered his face, and, to screen his features from the vulgar gaze of the crowd, they suffered it to remain there.

Up the wide stairs and into a s.p.a.cious _salon_ they now carried the figure, whose drooping head and hanging limbs gave little signs of life.

They placed him on a sofa, and Traynor, with a ready hand, untied the mask and removed it. ”Merciful Heavens,” cried he, ”it's my Lord himself!”

The youth bent down, gazed for a few seconds at the corpse-like face, and fell fainting to the floor.

”My Lord Glencore himself!” said the Duke, who was himself an old and attached friend.

”Hus.h.!.+ not a word,” whispered Traynor; ”he 's rallyin'--he 's comin' to; don't utter a syllable.”

Slowly and languidly the dying man raised his eyelids, and gazed at each of those around him. From their faces he turned his gaze to the chamber, viewing the walls and the ceiling all in turn; and then, in an accent barely audible, he said, ”Where am I?”

”Amongst friends, who love and will cherish you, dear Glencore,” said the Duke, affectionately.

”Ah, Brignolles, I remember you. And this,--who is this?”

”Traynor, my Lord,--Billy Traynor, that will never leave you while he can serve you!”

”Whose tears are those upon my hand,--I feel them hot and burning,” said the sick man; and Billy stepped back, that the light should fall upon the figure that knelt beside him.

”Don't cry, poor fellow,” said Glencore; ”it must be a hard world, or you have many better and dearer friends than I could have ever been to you. Who is this?”

Billy tried, but could not answer.

”Tell him, if you know who it is; see how wild and excited it has made him,” cried the Duke; for, stretching out both hands, Glencore had caught the boy's face on either side, and continued to gaze on it, in wild eagerness. ”It' is--it is!” cried he, pressing it to his bosom, and kissing the forehead over and over again.

”Whom does he fancy it? Whom does he suspect?”

”This is--look, Brignolles,” cried the dying man, in a voice already thick with a death-rattle,--”this is the seventh Lord Viscount Glencore.

I declare it. And now------”

He fell back, and never spoke more. A single shudder shook his feeble frame, and he was dead.