“To carry me--to the kirkyard--that’s my place; and put green turf over me--nothing but green turf. So long as you will be kind to old ’Lizabeth; she’ll live--she’s not the kind that dies--and not one of us to the fore! What did we do--we or our fathers?” said the vagrant solemnly. “But, oh, that’s true, true--that’s God’s word: neither he did it nor his fathers--but that the works of God might be manifest. Eh, but I cannot see--I cannot see how the work of God is in it. My eyes--there’s not much good in my eyes now.” Geoff kneeled beside the dying man not knowing what to do or say. Should he speak to him of religion? Should he question him about his own hard fate, that they might bring it home to the culprit? But Bampfylde was not able for either of these subjects. He was wading in the vague and misty country which is between life and death. He threw out his arms in the languor and restlessness of dying, and one of them dropped so that the fingers dipped in the little brook. This brought another gleam of faint pleasure to his pallid face. “Water--give me some--to drink,” he murmured, moving his lips. And then, as Geoff brought it to him in the hollow of a leaf, the only thing he could think of, and moistened his lips and bathed his forehead, “Thank you, Lily,” he said. “That’s pleasant, oh, that’s pleasant. And what was it brought you here--_you_ here?--they’re all safe, the young ones--thanks to---- Eh! it’s not Lily--but I thought I saw Lily; it’s you, my young lord?” “Yes, I am here--lean on me, Bampfylde. What can I do for you, what can I do?” Geoff had never seen death, and he trembled with awe and solemn reverence, far more deeply moved than the dying vagrant who was floating away on gentle waves of unconsciousness. “Ay, Lily--d’ye hear her calling?--the house is dark, and the night’s fine. But let’s go to her--let’s go; he was aye the last, though she likes him best.” Bampfylde raised himself suddenly with a half-convulsive movement. “Poor ’Lizabeth!--poor old ’Lizabeth--all gone--all gone!” he said. And what an hour Geoff spent supporting the poor head and moistening the dry lips of the man who was dead, yet could not die! He did not know there had been such struggles in the world. CHAPTER XXXVII. A TRAITOR.