“Nay,” was the prisoner’s rejoinder, in a low, musical voice, “’tis his Highness, the Crown Prince.” CHAPTER III “Oh, must this day be period of my life?” —MARLOWE, in _Edward the Second_. As Vytal turned from Frazer his face changed. The look of cold hate gave way to an even deeper expression of sadness, which, mellowing his bleak visage as the sunset glow softens the outlines of a rock, bespoke tender concern and apprehension. Around Roger a crowd had gathered, to the centre of which Vytal gravely made his way. The soldier lay prone and silent, the bearskin, which had been folded, forming a pillow for his head. He had evidently regained consciousness, yet from his bared chest a stream of blood welled slowly. Frazer’s weapon had pierced a lung. Beside him knelt Hugh Rouse, imploring him to speak. “Call me names, Roger; berate me an you will for sleeping; but say ’tis no mortal wound.” A chirurgeon who stood near by shook his head. “’Tis, indeed, mortal,” he declared. And Roger’s eyes rolling up to the chirurgeon’s face seemed to repeat, “Yes, mortal.” As the firelight was now obscured by the crowd, several soldiers, snatching resinous branches from the blaze, held them aloft to look once more upon their comrade’s face. Vytal bent over the dying man. “Dost know me, Roger?” Slowly the lips parted as the round head shifted restlessly. “Yea, well; and always I shall know you. Body o’ me! not know Captain Vytal—I, Prat, who have followed him through thick and thin? ’Tis impossible.” He raised his head and smiled at Rouse. “And you, too, my dwarfish soul—how could I mistake that shock o’ flaxen hair?” He passed a hand over the giant’s head affectionately; then, rising with pain to one elbow, turned again to Vytal. “You have saved us,” said the captain, “but at what a cost!” Prat made a deprecatory gesture. “Ay, thank God! saved you,” he replied; “yet have a care. This Frazer hath heard me prating to Rouse anent our weakness. You’ll look to it, no doubt, he conveys not the information to that peacock, the Spanish admiral. But, ah me, the young wild-slip hath killed King Lud. My last pet is departed. Oh, why did I not know his Majesty would never crawl away like a whipped cur? In troth ’twas most unnatural. Yet the darkness favored him—the darkness—i’ faith ’tis even darker now.” With an effort, he put a hand to his belt, and, drawing out the flute that for so long had been silent, held it to his lips. But, without sounding a single strain, he let it fall with one of his old grimaces. “Nay,” he muttered, “not a note; ne’ertheless, when I’m gone, ‘Be merry, friends; a fig for care and a fig for woe; be merry, friends.’” He sank back exhausted and closed his eyes. “He is dead,” groaned Hugh. But Roger, with a drawn smile, eyed him sideways. “Not dead by any means, poor dullard. No, not yet dead.”