“He was, as I have said, always thin, but by this time his face was cavernous; I could have hidden my knuckles in the depression over his temples, and my fist in the hollow under his cheek-bones. His scant, reddish hair, always carefully smoothed, lay about his forehead in tragic wisps. His pale blue eyes showed as two smears of colour in their great sockets. His interminable legs and arms stirred at unexpected distances under the pile of blankets. He was very weak. I feared that he would not pull through. “When the merciless sun was beginning to disappear round the corner of the house, MacPherson, who had been lying for the last hour or so in a state of coma, spoke to me in a low voice. I was staring in a melancholy way from my chair by his side, across the bed, between a chink of the Venetian blind; I don’t know what I was thinking of, probably my mind was a blank. I started when I heard him whisper my name, and bent towards him. He whispered,— “‘I don’t think I’m going to recover.’ “Neither did I, and seeing that he had made the remark as a statement of fact, in his usual tone, though low-pitched, I waited for what he should say next. He said,— “‘I am sorry to be a bore.’ “This was a hard remark to answer, but I murmured something. He went on, still in that hoarse whisper,— “‘I must talk to you first.’ “I saw that he was perfectly lucid in his mind, and thinking that he wanted to give me some necessary instructions I encouraged him to go on, but he only shook his head, and I saw that he had fallen back into the characteristic apathy. I sat on, expecting the arrival of Marco and the doctor at any moment. “Towards night, MacPherson roused himself again. He was so much weaker that I could barely make out the words he breathed. “‘It is time you went to water your garden.’ “I shook my head. A distressed look came over his face, and to comfort him I said,— “‘Marco has promised to do it for me.’ “He was content with that, and lay quiet with his long, long arms and thin hands outside the coverlet. I thought that he wanted to speak again, but had not the energy to begin, so, to help him, I suggested,— “‘Was there anything you wanted to say to me?’ “He nodded, more with his eyelids than with his head, then, bracing himself with pain for the effort, he whispered,— “‘You won’t stay on here?’ “I answered, ‘No,’ feeling that to adopt a reassuring, hearty attitude would be an insult to the man. “After a long pause he said,— “‘I want to be buried up here. By the ruins. I don’t care about consecrated ground.’ “An appalling attack of sickness interrupted him, after which he lay in such complete exhaustion that I thought he would never speak again. But after about half an hour, he resumed,— “‘Give me your word of honour. They will try to prevent you.’ “I swore it—poor devil. “‘Bury me deep,’ he said with a grim, twisted smile, ‘or some one will excavate me.’