mind again; death is nothing, let it come, but not with those dreams, not with the torture of those hideous dreams — I cannot endure that again....

Sandy?...”

He lay muttering incoherently some little time; then for a time he lay silent, and apparently sinking away toward death. Presently his fingers began to pick busily at the coverlet, and by that sign I knew that his end was at hand with the first suggestion of the death-rattle in his throat he started up slightly, and seemed to listen: then he said:

“A bugle?... It is the king! The drawbridge, there! Man the battlements! — turn out the — ”

He was getting up his last “effect”; but he never finished it.