"Can't do much harm," said Rupert, and took the bottle from the American's shaking hand.
The brandy revived the mortally wounded man.
"Good-bye, Rupert," he said. "I advise you to go straight down to Les Imberts station … and take the next train.… There will be a patrol … after this patrol … before long. You can't lie up here for long now.… Buck might take a horse and gallop for it.… Lie up somewhere else.… And ride to Oran to-night.… 'Erb should go as Rupert's servant … or by a different train.… Remember Mendoza's tips."
The stertorous, wheezy breathing was painfully interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing.
"Much pain, old chap?" asked the white-faced Rupert, as he wiped the blood from his friend's lips.
"No," whispered Sir Montague Merline. "I am dead … up to … the heart.… Expanding bullet.… Lungs … and spine … I … ex- … pect. Shan't be … long."
"Anything I can do—any message or anything?" asked Rupert.
The dying man closed his eyes.
The Bucking Bronco was frankly blubbering. Turning to the dead "Goum" who had shot his friend, he swore horribly, and deplored that the man was dead and beyond the reach of his further vengeance. He fell instantly silent as his stricken friend spoke again.
"If you … get … to Eng … land, Rupert … will … you go … to … my wife? She's Lady…" he whispered.
"Yes—Lady … who?" asked Rupert eagerly.
