"I fear, doctor, the life has been a little too hard for him.He had a severe nervous attack--seeing things, you know.""Yes, I know," stormed the old doctor."I know you well enough, with your head of cast-iron and no nerves to speak of.I know the crowd and how you lead them.Infernal fools! You'll get your turn some day.I've warned you before."The Duke was standing up before the doctor during this storm, smiling slightly.All at once the smile faded out and he pointed to the bed.Bruce was sitting up quiet and steady.He stretched out his hand to The Duke.
"Don't mind the old fool," he said, holding The Duke's hand and looking up at him as fondly as if he were a girl."It's my own funeral--funeral?" he paused--"Perhaps it may be--who knows?--feel queer enough--but remember, Duke--it's my own fault--don't listen to those bally fools," looking towards Moore and the doctor."My own fault"--his voice died down--"my own fault."The Duke bent over him and laid him back on the pillow, saying, "Thanks, old chap, you're good stuff.I'll not forget.Just keep quiet and you'll be all right." He passed his cool, firm hand over the hot brow of the man looking up at him with love in his eyes, and in a few moments Bruce fell asleep.Then The Duke lifted himself up, and facing the doctor, said in his coolest tone:
"Your words are more true than opportune, doctor.Your patient will need all your attention.As for my morals, Mr.Moore kindly entrusts himself with the care of them." This with a bow toward The Pilot.
"I wish him joy of his charge," snorted the doctor, turning again to the bed, where Bruce had already passed into delirium.
The memory of that vigil was like a horrible nightmare for months.
Moore lay on the floor and slept.The Duke rode off somewhither.
The old doctor and I kept watch.All night poor Bruce raved in the wildest delirium, singing, now psalms, now songs, swearing at the cattle or his poker partners, and now and then, in quieter moments, he was back in his old home, a boy, with a boy's friends and sports.Nothing could check the fever.It baffled the doctor, who often, during the night, declared that there was "no sense in a wound like that working up such a fever," adding curses upon the folly of The Duke and his Company.
"You don't think he will not get better, doctor?" I asked, in answer to one of his outbreaks.
"He ought to get over this," he answered, impatiently, "but Ibelieve," he added, deliberately, "he'll have to go."Everything stood still for a moment.It seemed impossible.Two days ago full of life, now on the way out.There crowded in upon me thoughts of his home; his mother, whose letters he used to show me full of anxious love; his wild life here, with all its generous impulses, its mistakes, its folly.
"How long will he last?" I asked, and my lips were dry and numb.
"Perhaps twenty-four hours, perhaps longer.He can't throw off the poison."The old doctor proved a true prophet.After another day of agonized delirium he sank into a stupor which lasted through the night.
Then the change came.As the light began to grow at the eastern rim of the prairie and up the far mountains in the west, Bruce opened his eyes and looked about upon us.The doctor had gone; The Duke had not come back; Moore and I were alone.He gazed at us steadily for some moments; read our faces; a look of wonder came into his eyes.
"Is it coming?" he asked in a faint, awed voice."Do you really think I must go?"The eager appeal in his voice and the wistful longing in the wide-open, startled eyes were too much for Moore.He backed behind me and I could hear him weeping like a baby.Bruce heard him, too.
"Is that The Pilot?" he asked.Instantly Moore pulled himself up, wiped his eyes and came round to the other side of the bed and looked down, smiling.
"Do YOU say I am dying?" The voice was strained in its earnestness.
I felt a thrill of admiration go through me as the Pilot answered in a sweet, clear voice: "They say so, Bruce.But you are not afraid?"Bruce kept his eyes on his face and answered with grave hesitation:
