"Ah, that old place," said he, "with its oaks, and its lawn, and its park,
and its Elizabethan gables! I little thought I should die here, so far
away, in this barren Yankee land. Where will you bury me?"

As Septimius hesitated to answer, the young man continued: "I would like to
have lain in the little old church at Whitnash, which comes up before me
now, with its low, gray tower, and the old yew-tree in front, hollow with
age, and the village clustering about it, with its thatched houses. I
would be loath to lie in one of your Yankee graveyards, for I have a
distaste for them,--though I love you, my slayer. Bury me here, on this
very spot. A soldier lies best where he falls."

"Here, in secret?" exclaimed Septimius.

"Yes; there is no consecration in your Puritan burial-grounds," said the
dying youth, some of that queer narrowness of English Churchism coming
into his mind. "So bury me here, in my soldier's dress. Ah! and my watch!
I have done with time, and you, perhaps, have a long lease of it; so take
it, not as spoil, but as my parting gift. And that reminds me of one other
thing. Open that pocket-book which you have in your hand."

Septimius did so, and by the officer's direction took from one of its
compartments a folded paper, closely written in a crabbed hand; it was
considerably worn in the outer folds, but not within. There was also a
small silver key in the pocket-book.

"I leave it with you," said the officer; "it was given me by an uncle, a
learned man of science, who intended me great good by what he there wrote.
Reap the profit, if you can. Sooth to say, I never read beyond the first