The weather remained pleasant, and the travelers were within a day’s ride of Dura, when Witherspoon complained one morning of feeling ill, and by noon be could scarcely sit in his saddle.

“Let us stop somewhere,” DeGolyer urged.

“No,” Witherspoon answered, “let us get to Dura as soon as we can.  I’ve got a fever, haven’t I?”

DeGolyer leaned over and placed his hand on Witherspoon’s forehead.  “Yes, you have.”

“The truth is, I haven’t felt altogether right since the first day after we started, but I thought it would wear off.”

When they reached Dura, Witherspoon was delirious.  Not a ship was in port, and DeGolyer took him to an inn and summoned such medical aid as the hamlet afforded.  The physician naturally gave the case a threatening color, and it followed that he was right, for at the close of the fourth day the patient gave no promise of improvement.  The innkeeper said that sometimes a month passed between the landing of ships at that point.  The fifth day came.  DeGolyer sat by the bedside of his friend, fanning him.  The doctor had called and had just taken his leave.

“Give me some water, Hank.”

“Ah, you are coming around all right, my boy,” DeGolyer cried.  He brought the water; and when the patient drank and shook his head as a signal to take away the cup, DeGolyer asked; “Don’t you feel a good deal better?”

“No.”

“But your mind is clear?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I put another cold cloth on your head?”

“If you please.”

And when DeGolyer had gently done this, Witherspoon said:  “Sit down here, Hank.”

“All right, my boy, here I am.”

“Hank, I’m not going to get well.”

“Oh, yes, you are, and don’t you let any such nonsense enter your head.”

“It’s a good ways from nonsense, I tell you.  I know what I’m talking about; I know just as well as can be that I’m going to die—­now you wait till I get through.  It can’t be helped, and there’s no use in taking on over it.  I did want to see my father and mother and sister, but it can’t be helped.”

DeGolyer was on his knees beside the bed.  He attempted to speak, but his utterance was choked; and the tears in his eyes blurred to spectral dimness the only human being whom he held warm in his heart.

“Hank, while I am able to talk I’ve got a great favor to ask of you.  And you’ll grant it, won’t you?”

“Yes,” DeGolyer Bobbed.

For a few moments the sick man lay in silence.  He fumbled about and found DeGolyer’s hand.  “My father and mother are waiting for me,” he said.  “They have been raised into a new life.  If I never come it will be worse than if I had never been found, for they’ll have a new grief to bear, and it may be heavier than the first.  They must have a son, Hank.”

“My dear boy, what do you mean?”

“I mean that if I die—­and I know that I am going to die—­you must be their son.  You must go there, not as Henry DeGolyer, but as Henry Witherspoon, their own son.”