“Quick!  Get my bag—­I left it in the passage,” whispered Mary, as she started forward, up the dais, to the old man’s side.  “And brandy, if you’ve got it,” she called after Beaumaroy, as he turned to the door to do her bidding.

Beaumaroy was gone no more than a minute.  When he came back, with the bag hitched under his arm, a decanter of brandy in one band and a glass in the other, Mary was leaning over the throne, with her arm round the old man.  His eyes were open, but he was inert and motionless.  Beaumaroy poured out some brandy, and gave it into Mary’s free hand.  But when Mr. Saffron saw Beaumaroy by his side, he gave a sudden twist of his body, wrenched himself away from Mary’s arm, and flung himself on his trusted friend.  “Hector, I’m in danger!  They’re after me!  They’ll shut me up!”

Beaumaroy put his strong arms about the frail old body.  “Oh no, sir, oh, no!” he said in low, comforting, half-bantering tones.  “That’s the old foolishness, sir, if I may so say.  You’re perfectly safe with me.  You ought to trust me by now, sir, really you ought.”

“You swear, you swear it’s all right, Hector?”

“Right as rain, sir,” Beaumaroy assured him cheerfully.

Very feebly the old man moved his right hand towards the open grave.  “Plenty—­plenty!  All yours, Hector!  For—­for the Cause—­God’s with us!” His head fell forward on Beaumaroy’s breast; for an instant again he raised it, and looked in the face of his friend.  A smile came on his lips.  “I know I can trust you.  I’m safe with you, Hector.”  His head fell forward again; his whole body was relaxed; he gave a sigh of peace.  Beaumaroy lifted him in his arms and very gently set him back in his great chair, placing his feet again on the high footstool.

“I think it’s all over,” he said, and Mary saw tears in his eyes.

Then Mary herself collapsed; she sank down on the dais and broke into weeping.  It had all been so pitiful, and somehow so terrible.  Her quick tumultuous sobbing sounded through the place which the vibrations of the old man’s voice had lately filled.

She felt Beaumaroy’s hand on her shoulder.  “You must make sure,” he said, in a low voice.  “You must make your examination.”

With trembling hands she did it—­she forced herself to it, Beaumaroy aiding her.  There was no doubt.  Life had left the body which reason had left long before.  His weakened heart had not endured the last strain of mad excitement.  The old man was dead.

Her face showed Beaumaroy the result of her examination, if he had ever doubted of it.  She looked at him, then made a motion of her hand towards the body.  “We must—­we must—­” she stammered, the tears still rolling down her cheeks.

“Presently,” he said.  “There’s plenty of time.  You’re not fit to do that now—­and no more am I, to tell the truth.  We’ll rest for half an hour, and then get him upstairs, and—­and do the rest.  Come with me!” He put his hand lightly within her arm.  “He will rest quietly on his throne for a little while.  He’s not afraid any more.  He’s at rest.”