His breathing was no longer marked by any
rasping sound, and his eyes seemed to burn more intelligently.
"I am dying - is it not so?" he asked, and Ganymede bowed his head
in silence. The poor fellow sighed. "Raise me," he begged, and
when this service had been done him, his eyes wandered round until
they found me. Then "Monsieur," he said, "will you do me a last
favour?"
"Assuredly, my poor friend," I answered, going down on my knees
beside him.
"You - you were not for the Duke?" he inquired, eyeing me more
keenly.
"No, monsieur. But do not let that disturb you; I have no interest
in this rising and I have taken no side. I am from Paris, on a
journey of - of pleasure. My name is Bardelys - Marcel de Bardelys."
"Bardelys the Magnificent?" he questioned, and I could not repress
a smile.
"I am that overrated man."
"But then you are for the King!" And a note of disappointment crept
into his voice. Before I could make him any answer, he had resumed.
"No matter; Marcel de Bardelys is a gentleman, and party signifies
little when a man is dying. I am Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in
Gascony," he pursued. "Will you send word to my sister afterwards?"
I bowed my head without speaking.
"She is the only relative I have, monsieur. But" - and his tone grew
wistful - "there is one other to whom I would have you bear a
message." He raised his hand by a painful effort to the level of
his breast. Strength failed him, and he sank back.
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