“What a curious way he talked. Sometimes so well and sensibly; sometimes in such incomprehensible jargon. What did he mean by saying, ‘Osman stayed here till death took him. You must remain here until death takes _me_’?” CHAPTER XXXIII. “HEREDITARY.” His long afternoon rest had revived Major Jervis; he appeared to be another man as he sat opposite his son at dinner, and talked not merely sensibly, but wittily, across the grimy tablecloth, on which was exhibited smoked goat-chops and other undesirable comestibles. He discussed the condemned cantonment--he recollected its bygone existence. The lepers--they were his pensioners, and came for their dole weekly--they were well looked after between missionaries and other people. He spoke of his regiment, his former comrades; he gave vivid descriptions of shikar expeditions, of pig-sticking, of thrilling scenes on active service. He related anecdotes of well-known people of his acquaintance; he boasted of his brothers-in-arms, and described a polo tournament as if it had come off yesterday! “And you have quite lost sight of all these friends?” inquired his son, after a pause. The question seemed to break a spell; all animation suddenly faded from the major’s face, his whole expression changed into that of a shrunken old man as he replied-- “Yes; I left the herd, like a wounded deer, seven long years ago. I have hidden myself from them, and I am entirely forgotten. People are forgotten out here sooner, more completely, than in any other country.” “Why do you say so?” asked his son, incredulously. “Because life is so full; events march rapidly, changes occur daily. Cholera, war, accidents, sweep away men--and memories.” When the table had been cleared and cigarettes produced, and Fuzzil and his satellite had somewhat reluctantly departed, Major Jervis looked steadily at his companion for some time, and exclaimed at last-- “You are very like me, Mark! I can see it myself; and I was considered a good-looking fellow. I had a bigger frame, though; I rode a couple of stone heavier. But you are a stronger man than your father; you have a square jaw and a stern will. You can say _no_. I never could get out that word in time--and many troubles were my lot. You wish me to go home with you, my boy?” “I do,” was the laconic and emphatic reply. “And I want you to stay with _me_; you must remain with me. I have not long to live. Look at me well.” Mark glanced at his sunken eyes, his worn, emaciated features. “And you must see the last of me. I don’t intend to let you go; no, for once I, too, can say _no_.” “But, nevertheless, I’m afraid you must let me go, sir, and shortly. I promised Uncle Dan----”