The old man lay calm as marble. The cheeks were hollowed, and the fringe of stiff white hair uplifted. A more beautiful picture of an Englishman, faithful unto death, it was impossible to conceive. Kit thought of Sir Geoffrey Blount, the old Crusader with chipped nose--mailed hands folded just so, casqued head tilted just so--asleep on the stone-slab in the lady-chapel at home. But how far more beautiful than that broken-nosed old warrior was this Crusader of the Sea! III The Parson bent. _"Piper!"_ he called low. _"Piper!"_ The old man stirred. _"D'you know who I am?"_ One great forefinger uplifted and fell. _"We won through,"_ choked the Parson. _"Nelson's safe."_ The old man's lips parted. _"Mr. Caryll's brought a message for you from Nelson,"_ continued the Parson. "Kit!" The boy bent his lips to the ear of the dying sailor. _"Piper!"_ he cried, his pure boy's voice ringing out fearlessly. _"Nelson--sent--his--love--to--you--his--love."_ "He can't hear," choked the Parson. "It's no good." "Hush," said the boy. He knew the message would take minutes travelling along the dying passages to the brain. At last, at last it reached. The old man's face broke into a smile, fair as a winter sunset. _"Love"_ he whispered, nodded deliberately, and died. CHAPTER LXXXVI TWILIGHT I The Parson turned to the window, weeping. Kit crossed to comfort him. "It's all right, sir," he said tenderly, taking the other by the arm. A hand plucked at his ankle. "Little Chap," whispered a voice. The boy looked down. At his feet, propped on a straw-stuffed haversack against the wall, lay the Gentleman. Kit was kneeling beside him in an instant. "O, sir!" he cried, with sobbing heart. The other tweaked his nose with tender fingers. "Cela ne fait rien." "But are you hurt, sir?" "Pas trop.... Not quite what I was at dawn; and not quite what I shall be at dark." He was sitting strangely huddled. "May I see?" begged Kit, fingers at his breast. "Certainly not," the other replied with his faint chuckle. "But have they made you comfortable?" "Quite.... So kind, you English--once you've got your own way. I've been lying here, dreaming and drifting, while the flies buzzed and Sailor on the table there muttered about his Saviour." The Parson bent over him. "Sir," he said, "what you must think of me--" His voice came in gusts. The other lifted his face. "Comfort yourself, my friend. In your place I should have done the same." "I swear to you--" gasped the Parson, broken and blubbering. The other took his fingers. "Friend," he said, "you won; but I didn't lose." The old flicker of swords was in his eyes. "Defeat can't touch the man who won't admit it. Look at Sailor there! He was impregnable. So am I." II A robin sang outside. The trill fell sweetly on the silence. The Parson bent above the dying man. "Is there anything we can do for you, sir?" The other raised wistful eyes, mischievous a little.