The marquis would not have the doctors come near him, and when Malcolm entered there was no one in the room but Mrs. Courthope.  The shadow had crept far along the dial.  His face had grown ghastly, the skin had sunk to the bones, and his eyes stood out as if from much staring into the dark.  They rested very mournfully on Malcolm for a few moments, and then closed softly.

“Is she come yet?” he murmured, opening them wide with sudden stare.

“No, my lord.”

The lids fell again, softly, slowly.

“Be good to her, Malcolm,” he murmured.

“I wull, my lord,” said Malcolm solemnly.

Then the eyes opened and looked at him:  something grew in them, a light as of love, and drew up after it a tear; but the lips said nothing.  The eyelids fell again, and in a minute more Malcolm knew by his breathing that he slept.

The slow night waned.  He woke sometimes, but soon dozed off again.  The two watched by him till the dawn.  It brought a still gray morning, without a breath of wind and warm for the season.  The marquis appeared a little revived, but was hardly able to speak.  Mostly by signs he made Malcolm understand that he wanted Mr. Graham, but that some one else must go for him.  Mrs. Courthope went.

As soon as she was out of the room he lifted his hand with effort, laid feeble hold on Malcolm’s jacket, and, drawing him down, kissed him on the forehead.  Malcolm burst into tears and sank weeping by the bedside.

Mr. Graham, entering a little after, and seeing Malcolm on his knees, knelt also and broke into a prayer.

“O blessed Father!” he said, “who knowest this thing, so strange to us, which we call death, breathe more life into the heart of Thy dying son, that in the power of life he may front death.  O Lord Christ! who diedst Thyself, and in Thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need—­heal him with strength to die.”

A faint Amen came from the marquis.

“Thou didst send him into the world:  help him out of it.  O God! we belong to Thee utterly.  We dying men are Thy children, O living Father!  Thou art such a father that Thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind Thy back.  Thou cleansest our souls as Thy Son did wash our feet.  We hold our hearts up to Thee:  make them what they must be, O Love!  O Life of men!  O Heart of hearts!  Give Thy dying child courage and hope and peace—­the peace of Him who overcame all the terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore, sitting at Thy right hand, our God-brother, blessed to all ages.  Amen.”

“Amen!” murmured the marquis, and, slowly lifting his hand from the coverlid, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did not know it was the hand of his father blessing him ere he died.

“Be good to her,” said the marquis once more.

But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis was not satisfied.  Gathering all his force, he said again, “Be good to her.”