His father was looking out of the lattice; but Beatrice raised her eyes to his, and smiled at him. Sir James stood up. “The Lieutenant is coming,” he said. A moment later there were steps in the flagged passage; and a murmur of voices. The soldier who had brought them to the lodgings was waiting there with the order of admission, and was no doubt explaining the circumstances. Then the door opened suddenly; and a tall soldierly-looking man, grey-haired and clean-shaven, in an officer’s dress, stood there, with the order in his hand, as the two in the window-seat rose to meet him. “Master Torridon,” he said abruptly. Sir James stepped forward. “Yes, sir.” “You have come to see Mr. Ralph Torridon whom we have here?” “Yes, sir--my son.” Nicholas stepped forward, and the Lieutenant nodded at him. “Yes, sir,” said the officer to him, “I could not admit you before--” he stopped, as if embarrassed, and turned to Beatrice. “And this lady too?” “Yes, Master Lieutenant,” said the old man. “But--but--I do not understand--” He looked at the radiant faces before him, and then dropped his eyes. “I suppose--you have not heard then?” Chris felt his heart leap, and then begin to throb furiously and insistently. What had happened? Why did the man look like that? Why did he not speak? The Lieutenant came a step forward and put his hand on the table. He was looking strangely from face to face. Outside the court was very still. The footstep that had passed on the flagstones a minute before had ceased; and there was no sound but the chirp of a bird under the eaves. “You have not heard then?” said the Lieutenant again. “Oh! for God’s sake--” cried the old man suddenly. “I have just come from your son,” said the other steadily. “You are only just in time. He is at the point of death.” CHAPTER XIII THE RELEASE It was morning, and they still sat in Ralph’s cell. * * * * * The attendant had brought in stools and a tall chair with a broken back, and these were grouped round the low wooden bed; the old man in the chair on one side, from where he could look down on his son’s face, with Beatrice beside him, Chris and Nicholas on the other side. Mr. Morris was everywhere, sitting on a form by the door, in and out with food and medicine, at his old master’s bedside, lifting his pillow, turning him in bed, holding his convulsive hands. He had been ill six days, the Lieutenant told them. The doctor who had been called in from outside named the disease _phrenitis_. It was certain that he would not recover; and a message to that effect had been sent across on the morning before, with the usual reports to Greenwich.