As I drained the last dregs of ale from my tankard there came to my side the lad Walter, that had run about the house on one errand or another since the siege began, and whom but a moment before I had sent up to John Stirk with a message. He seemed in haste, and there was that in his face which made me start to my feet. “’Tis Mistress French,” says he; “she wishes to see you at Sir Nicholas’s chamber-door--I heard her say something to Barbara about his dying,” he says, staring at me. “Say naught to the other men,” says I, and started for the stairs. I passed Peter and Benjamin at the garden window. “Keep a good watch, lads,” I says. “They may attempt something under cover of the night,” and I turned from them to see my cousin advancing to meet me. There was no lamp in the corridor, but she held a candle in her hand, and by its dim light I saw that her face was anxious and that she had been weeping. “You sent for me, cousin?” says I, and for the first time since I had entered the house I took her hand in mine. “I hope my uncle is no worse,” I says. “May I not see him?” “He has been asking for you,” she says. “I think--nay, I am sure--that he is dying. He has been very quiet this long time, and has said but little. And his mind, somehow, seems so much clearer than it has been for some days--it frightens me to see how calm he is.” “Why,” says I, wishful to comfort her, “do not lose heart, cousin, for it may be that he is somewhat better. But let me into his chamber since he has asked for me.” She opened the door and motioned me to step within. There was no more light in the room than came from the logs burning in the hearth, but I saw that Barbara sat by the bedside, and that my uncle lay between the sheets very straight and still. “Here’s Master Richard come to see you, Sir Nicholas,” says Barbara, and got out of her chair with a sign to me to take it. “A’s failing fast,” she whispers, as I drew near the bed; “but a’s bent on seeing thee, Master Dick.” I took the chair and leaned over towards my uncle’s face. “I hope I find you somewhat recovered, dear sir,” says I, feeling, as I think most men feel at such moments, very strange and ignorant of what to do or say. “Your pain, now--I trust ’tis abated since----” “Is it Dick?” says he, opening his eyes and trying to turn his head on the pillow. “Yes, sir,” says I. “Ah!” says he, very slow and feeble in his speech. “I hear great news of thee. We are withstanding a siege, it appears. I could wish to give thee some advice as to what should be done, nephew.” “I shall receive it gladly and with much respect, sir,” says I, “if it be not too much trouble for you to speak with me on these matters.” “No trouble,” says he, “no trouble, nephew--in these times we must lay aside personal----”