Just another scene, and my tale is told.

I was reading in Guy’s room one evening.  He had not spoken for some time, and I fancied he was asleep.  Suddenly he called to me,

“Frank, come here—­nearer.  I have several things to say to you, and I feel I must make haste.  No, don’t call any one.  I said farewell to my mother yesterday, and we must spare her all we can.”

In the presence of that sublime self-command, I dared not betray my grief by any outward sign.  I knelt down by his side silently.

He went on in a voice that, though hollow and often interrupted by failing breath, was perfectly measured and steady.

“You can only be glad that the end has come at last, though it is well I have had time to prepare myself.  Am I ready now?  I can not tell.  Foster says I ought to hope.  I trust it is not wicked to say I do not fear.  I have sinned often and deeply; but He who will judge me created me, and He knows, too, how much I have suffered.  I do not mean from this (he threw his hand toward his crippled limbs with the old gesture of disdain), but from bitterness and loneliness of heart.  More than all, I am sure my darling has been pleading for me ever since she died.  I will not believe her prayers have been wasted.

“I want to tell you what I have done.  You know the direct line of my family ends with me.  I am glad it does.  The next in succession would be a cousin, who has taken to some trade in Edinburgh; a good man, I believe—­but he would not do here.  So I have left Kerton to my mother for her life, and then—­to you.  Hush! the time is too short for objections or thanks, and death-bed gifts show little generosity.  Besides, I would have left it to Isabel, only it would be more a trouble to her than any thing else.  You will take care of every thing and every body.  Say farewell for me to my old friends, especially to Mohun.  Poor Ralph! he will be sorry—­though he will not own it—­when he comes back from Bohemia and finds me gone.”

He raised himself a little, so as to rest his hand on my shoulder as I knelt, while his voice deepened in its solemn calm: 

“Dear Frank, one other word for yourself, who have borne so patiently with my perverse temper since we were boys together.  I have been silent, but, indeed, not ungrateful.  For all your kind, unselfish thoughts, and words, and deeds—­for all the good you would have counseled—­for all your efforts to stand between me and wrong-doing—­tried friend, true comrade!  I thank you now, heartily, and I pray God to bless you always.”

It was only self-control, almost superhuman, that enabled him to speak those words steadily, for the fierce death-throe was possessing him before he ended.  Through the awful minutes that followed, not another sound than the hissing breath escaped through his set lips; his face was not once distorted, though the hair and beard clung round it, matted and dank with the sweat of agony.  The brave heart and iron nerve ruled the body to the last imperially—­supreme over the intensity of torture.