"It seems tough--but the only friend I have to close my eyes is the man I plotted against and nearly despoiled of his lady-love," mutters Hollins. Either he is wandering a little bit or the brandy is potent enough to blur his sense of the nearness of death. "I wanted to tell you the truth--not that I look for forgiveness. I know your race well enough. You'll see fair play, but love and hate are things you don't change in much. I've no right to ask anything of you, but--who _is_ there? My God! I believe your wife that is to be was about the only friend I had in the world--except Rix. He brought me back the letters, and says she was so good to him. I hope he didn't ask her for money. He swears he didn't, but he's such a liar! We both are, for that matter. I'm glad, though, now, that my lies didn't hurt you. They didn't, did they, Abbot? You're still engaged?" "I--am engaged." "Oh, well; if I only hadn't brought that damnable sorrow to that poor child, and if I could only feel that they wouldn't shoot Rix, it wouldn't be so bad--my going now. What _will_ they do with Rix?" "He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. The men nearly lynched him as it was." "I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all strange?" Here for over a year we two have been plotting against you, and now, at the last, you're the only friend we have. "Where is he?" "Down below, under guard. You shall see him whenever you feel like it. Is there any one else you want to see, Hollins?" "Any one--any one? Ah, God! Yes, with a longing that burns. It is _her_ face. It is she--Bessie!" His hand steals feebly into his breast, and he drags slowly forth a little packet of oiled silk. This he hugs close to his fluttering heart, and his eyes seek those of the young soldier standing there so strong, so self-reliant and erect. His glance seems envious, even now, with the fast-approaching angel's death-seal dimming their light, and the clammy dew gathering on his brow. "It was your picture I sent her, just as you seem to stand there now. It was I who won her, but she thinks I looked like you." "Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a voice that trembles despite every effort at self-control, and trembles, too, through the very coldness of the tone. "Colonel Putnam is not far off. There are others whom you might like to see; and shall I send Rix to you?" "No--not now--no use. Promise me this, Abbot. No matter where or how I'm buried--never mind coffin, or the flag, or the volleys, or the prayers; I don't deserve--They won't help me. _You_ see to it, will you, that this is buried on my heart? It's her picture, and some letters. Promise." Abbot slowly bows his head. "I promise, Hollins, if it will comfort you."