"Oh, Martin," said he faintly, looking up at me with his old brave smile, "'tis come at last--my journeying is done--"
Scarce knowing what I did, I gathered him to my bosom and bore him back to the cave; and now, when I would have staunched his hurt, he shook feeble head.
"Let be, dear lad," said he, "nought shall avail--not all your care and love--for here is friend Death at last come to lift me up to a merciful God!"
None the less I did all that I might for his hurt save to probe for the pistol ball that was gone too deep. And presently, as I knelt beside him in a very agony of helplessness, cometh Pluto, fouled with blood other than his own, and limping hither, cast himself down, his great paw across Sir Richard's legs, licking at those weary feet that should tramp beside us no farther. And thus night found us.
"Martin," said Sir Richard suddenly, his voice strong, "bear me out where I may behold the stars, for I--ever loved them and the wonder of them--even in my--unregenerate days." So I bore him without, and indeed the heavens were a glory.
"Dear lad," said he, clasping my hand, "grieve not that I die, for Death is my friend--hath marched beside me these many weary miles, yet spared me long enough to know and love you ever better for the man you are.--Now as to Joan, my daughter, I--grieve not to see her--but--God's will be done, lad, Amen. And because I knew I must die here in Darien, I writ her a letter--'tis here in my bosom--give it her, saying I--ever loved her greatly more than I let her guess and that--by my sufferings I was a something better man, being--humbler, gentler, and of--a contrite heart. And now, Martin--thou that didst forgive and love thine enemy, saving him at thine own peril and using him as thy dear friend--my time is come--I go into the infinite--Death's hand is on me but--a kindly hand--lifting me--to my God--my love shall go with ye--all the way--you and her--alway. Into Thy hands, O Lord!"
And thus died my enemy, like the brave and noble gentleman he was, his head pillowed upon my bosom, his great soul steadfast and unfearing to the last.
And I, a lost and desolate wretch, wept at my bitter loss and cried out against the God who had snatched from me this the only man I had ever truly loved and honoured. And bethinking me of his patient endurance, I thought I might have been kinder and more loving in many ways and to my grief was added bitter self-reproaches.