you were
not free, you deceived and cheated her. That is what I am to tell Miss
Mildare? Signal if I am right."

The dying eyes are brimming with tears. When the lids shut, signifying
"Yes," slow, heavy drops are forced between them.

"Very well. Now hear. I will not tell her!"

The eyes open wide with surprise.

"I will never tell her," says Saxham again. "I will not blacken any man's
reputation to further my own interests." The vital strength and the
white-hot passion of him, contrasted with the spent and utter laxity of
the dissolving thing of clay upon the bed, seem superhuman. "Do you hear
me?" he demands again. "Listen once more. Knowing the truth of you, I came
here to force you to undeceive her. Had you refused, I would certainly
have killed you. But I would never have betrayed you!"

That "never" of Saxham's carries conviction. The pale ghost of a laugh is
in the dying eyes. The wraith of Beauvayse's old voice comes back again to
say:

"Doctor, you're a ... damned good sort!" And then there is a long, long
silence, broken only by those painful rattling breaths, never by her
coming.

The end comes, and she is not there. A pale blink in the wild sky eastward
hints to the night lookouts of hot drink, food, and welcome rest. The
Chief stands beside the comfortless camp-bed, where the hope of a high old
House is flickering out. The Doctor holds the wet and icy wrist, where the
pulse has ceased to be perceptible. The sheet above the labouring breast
rises and falls with those panting, rattling gasps; the beautiful eyes
are rolled up and inwards. The light is very nearly out, when, with a last
effort, the flame leaps up. He thinks that what is the barely perceptible
whisper of a tongue already clay is a loud and ringing cheer. He thinks
that he is shouting, his strong young voice topping a hundred other
voices. It seems to him who, for the bribe of all the beauty he has
coveted, and all the love that is yet unwon, could not speak one audible
word or move a finger, that he waves his hat again and again. Oh! glorious
moment when the white moonbeams blink on the grey dust-wall rolling down
from the North, and the horsemen of the Advance ride out of it, and
clustering enemies that have rallied again to the attack waver, and
disperse, and scatter....

"Hurrah! They're running--running for their lives! Give it 'em with
shrapnel! Oh, pepper 'em like hell! The Relief! The Relief! Hurrah!"

It is all over with