He laid my friend back on the bed with a touch as deft and gentle as a woman's, and kneeling by the bedside, he began to pray earnestly and fervently, in a soft voice rich with the rare gem of unaffected sympathy. Following his example, I knelt on the other side of the bed, and, with my face buried in my hands, I tried to follow his prayers through the tumult of my thronging emotions at the knowledge that this brave, staunch friend must die, and that it was his friendship that had cost him his life.
How long the good priest prayed I know not, but after a time I was conscious that the rich, sweet voice had ceased, and when I looked up I was alone with my dying comrade.
I got up from my knees, and placing the one rush chair by the bed, sat down to watch for the end and wait lest he should return to consciousness.
A short time later the priest looked in and beckoned me.
"The men who carried your friend here are still waiting; shall I keep them any longer?" I placed my purse in his hands to give them what he would, merely asking him to reward them generously.
"Will he recover consciousness?" I asked.
"It were better not, but he is in God's hands," he answered reverently; and I stole back to my chair to resume my vigil.
He looked already like a dead man, and I had to hold my ear close to his mouth before I could catch the faintest sign of his breathing. I felt for the pulse and could detect no flicker of it, and then I laid my fingers gently over his heart. The beats were barely to be discerned. As I drew my hand away I came upon a secret. A dead flower bound by a wisp of faded
