“Yes, old man,” he said very faintly, and then “water, please.”
Barbara Harding brought him a drink, holding his head against her knee while he drank. The cool liquid seemed to give him new strength for presently he spoke, quite strongly.
“I’m going, Byrne,” he said; “but before I go I want to tell you that of all the brave men I ever have known I have learned within the past few days to believe that you are the bravest. A week ago I thought you were a coward—I ask your forgiveness.”
“Ferget it,” whispered Byrne, “fer a week ago I guess I was a coward. Dere seems to be more’n one kind o’ nerve—I’m jest a-learnin’ of the right kind, I guess.”
“And, Byrne,” continued Theriere, “don’t forget what I asked of you before we tossed up to see which should enter Oda Yorimoto’s house.”
“I’ll not ferget,” said Billy.
“Goodbye, Byrne,” whispered Theriere. “Take good care of Miss Harding.”
“Goodbye, old pal,” said the mucker. His voice broke, and two big tears rolled down the cheeks of “de toughest guy on de Wes’ Side.”
Barbara Harding stepped to Theriere’s side.
“Goodbye, my friend,” she said. “God will reward you for your friendship, your bravery, and your devotion. There must be a special honor roll in heaven for such noble men as you.”
Theriere smiled sadly.
“Byrne will tell you all,” he said, “except who I am—he does not know that.”
“Is there any message, my friend,” asked the girl, “that you would like to have me deliver?”
Theriere remained silent for a moment as though thinking.
“My name,” he said, “is Henri Theriere. I am the Count de Cadenet of France. There is no message, Miss Harding, other than you see fit to deliver to my relatives. They lived in Paris the last I heard of them—my brother, Jacques, was a deputy.”
His voice had become so low and weak that the girl could scarce distinguish his words. He gasped once or twice, and then tried to speak again. Barbara leaned closer, her ear almost against his lips.
“Goodbye—dear.” The words were almost inaudible, and then the body stiffened with a little convulsive tremor, and Henri Theriere, Count de Cadenet, passed over into the keeping of his noble ancestors.
“He’s gone!” whispered the girl, dry-eyed but suffering. She had not loved this man, she realized, but she had learned to think of him as her one true friend in their little world of scoundrels and murderers. She had cared for him very much—it was entirely possible that some day she might have come to return his evident affection for her. She knew nothing of the seamy side of his hard life. She had guessed nothing of the scoundrelly duplicity that had marked his first advances toward her. She thought of him only as a true, brave gentleman, and in that she was right, for whatever Henri Theriere might have been in the past the last few days of his life had revealed him in the true colors that birth and nature had intended him to wear through a brilliant career. In his death he had atoned for many sins.
And in those last few days he had transferred, all unknown to himself or the other man, a measure of the gentility and chivalry that were his birthright, for, unrealizing, Billy Byrne was patterning himself after the man he had hated and had come to love.
After the girl’s announcement the mucker had continued to sit with bowed head staring at the ground. Afternoon had deepened into evening, and now the brief twilight of the tropics was upon them—in a few moments it would be dark.
Presently Byrne looked up. His eyes wandered about the tiny clearing. Suddenly he staggered to his feet. Barbara Harding sprang up, startled by the evident alarm in the man’s attitude.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What is the matter?”
“De Chink!” he cried. “Where is de Chink?”
And, sure enough, Oda Iseka had disappeared!
The youthful daimio had taken advantage of the preoccupation of his captors during the last moments of Theriere to gnaw in two the grass rope which bound him to the mucker, and with hands still fast bound behind him had slunk into the jungle path that led toward his village.
“They will be upon us again now at any moment,” whispered the girl. “What can we do?”
“We better duck,” replied the mucker. “I hates to run away from a bunch of Chinks, but I guess it’s up to us to beat it.”
“But poor Mr. Theriere?” asked the girl.
“I’ll have to bury him close by,” replied the mucker. “I don’t tink I could pack him very fer tonight—I don’t feel jest quite fit agin yet. You wouldn’t mind much if I buried him here, would you?”
“There is no other way, Mr. Byrne,” replied the girl. “You mustn’t think of trying to carry him far. We have done all we can for poor Mr. Theriere—you have almost given your life for him already—and it wouldn’t do any good to carry his dead body with us.”
“I hates to tink o’ dem head-huntin’ Chinks gettin’ him,” replied Byrne; “but maybe I kin hide his grave so’s dey won’t tumble to it.”
“You are in no condition to carry him at all,” said the girl. “I doubt if you can go far even without any burden.”
The mucker grinned.
“Youse don’t know me, miss,” he said, and stooping he lifted the body of the Frenchman to his broad shoulder, and started up the hillside through the trackless underbrush.
It would have been an impossible feat for an ordinary man in the pink of condition, but the mucker, weak from pain and loss of blood, strode sturdily upward while the marveling girl followed close behind him. A hundred yards above the spring they came upon a little level spot, and here with the two swords of Oda Yorimoto which they still carried they scooped a shallow grave in which they placed all that was mortal of the Count de Cadenet.
Barbara Harding whispered a short
