On their way thither, the duke inquired how the patient had received that fatal wound, of which his grace had only heard a vague report from scraps of conversation among the officials at the L’Ange Railway Depot.

The doctor gave him a brief account of the arrest and the suicide.

The duke made no comment, but fell into deep, sorrowful thought, until they reached the door of the room in which John Scott lay mortally wounded.

The doctor opened the door and passed in with the duke.

It was a good-sized, square room, in which had once been placed four cots to accommodate four old men.  Now, however, all the cots had been removed except the one on which the wounded man lay, and that had been drawn into the middle of the chamber, so as to give the patient a free circulation of fresh air, and to allow the approach of surgeon and attendants on every side.  The walls were white-washed, the floor sanded, the windows shaded with blue paper hangings, and the cot-bed covered with a clean, blue-checked spread.  Four cane chairs and a small deal table completed the furniture.

Everything was plain, clean and comfortable.

The doctor, with a deprecating gesture, signed to the duke to wait a moment, and went up to the side of the bed, and finding his patient awake, whispered: 

“Monsieur, the friend you expected has arrived.”

“You mean—­the Duke of Hereward?” faintly inquired Scott.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Give me then—­some cordial—­to keep up my strength—­for fifteen minutes longer,” sighed the dying man at intervals.

The doctor signed to Sister Francoise, who sat by the bedside, to go and bring what was required.

The old nun went to the deal table and brought a small bottle of cognac brandy and a slender wine glass.

The doctor filled the glass, lifted the head of the patient, and placed the stimulant to his lips.

Scott swallowed the brandy, drew a deep breath as he sank back upon the pillow and said: 

“Now, bring the duke to my bed side, and let everyone go and leave us together.”

The doctor signed for the duke to approach, and silently presented him to the patient.

Then he beckoned Sister Francoise to follow him, and they left the room, closing the door behind them.

“I am sorry to see you suffering, my brother,” said the duke, kindly, as he bent over the dying man.

“Ah! you call me your brother!  You acknowledge me then?” said Scott, half in earnest, half in mockery.

“Most certainly I do acknowledge you, and most sincerely do I deplore your misfortunes,” answered the duke.

“Yet I have been a great sinner.  I feel that now, as I lie upon my death-bed,” muttered Scott, in a low tone.

“I look upon you as one ‘more sinned against than sinning,’” said the duke seriously.

“Yes, that is true also,” murmured the dying man.