"Prince of Vaufontaine they call me, but, as you know, I am only a
vagabond turned soldier," he said. The dying man smiled to himself,--
a smile of the sweetest vanity this side of death,--for it seemed to him
that the Lord had granted him this brand from the burning, and in supreme
satisfaction, he whispered: "I used to say an office for you every
Litany--which was a Friday, and twice, I remember, on two Saints' days."

Suddenly another thought came to him, and his lips moved--he was
murmuring to himself. He would leave a goodly legacy to the captive of
his prayers.

Taking the leather-covered journal of his life in both hands, he held it
out.

"Highness, highness--" said he. Death was breaking the voice in his
throat.

Detricand stooped and ran an arm round his shoulder, but raising himself
up Mr. Dow gently pushed him back. The strength of his supreme hour was
on him.

"Highness," said he, "I give you the book of five years of my life--not
of its every day, but of its moments, its great days. Read it," he
added, "read it wisely. Your own name is in it--with the first time I
said an office for you." His breath failed him, he fell back, and lay
quiet for several minutes.

"You used to take too much wine," he said half wildly, starting up again.
"Permit me your hand, highness."