Arthur flew across the hall, and through the entrance, which had been flung widely open, as the figure of the young heir of Oakwood had been recognised by the streaming eyes of the faithful Morris, who stood by his young master's stirrup, but without uttering a word.

Percy's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his eyes were bloodshot and haggard.

He had no power to ask a question, and it was only the appearance of Myrvin, his entreaty that he would be calm ere Herbert saw him, that roused him to exertion.

His brother yet lived; it was enough, and in another minute he stood on the threshold of Herbert's room.

With an overpowering effort the dying youth raised himself on his couch, and extended his arms towards him.
"Percy, my own Percy, this is kind," he said, and his voice suddenly regained its wonted power.