"No fear of your welcome."
His eyes met mine. I bent over him. "Tell her--" and his voice faded
away.
"What shall I tell her?" I asked, trying to recall him. But the message
was never given. He moved one hand slowly toward The Duke till it
touched his head. The Duke lifted his face and looked down at him, and
then he did a beautiful thing for which I forgave him much. He stooped
over and kissed the lips grown so white, and then the brow. The light
came back into the eyes of the dying man, he smiled once more, and
smilingly faced toward the Great Beyond. And the morning air, fresh from
the sun-tipped mountains and sweet with the scent of the June roses,
came blowing soft and cool through the open window upon the dead,
smiling face. And it seemed fitting so. It came from the land of the
Morning.
Again The Duke did a beautiful thing; for, reaching across his dead
friend, he offered his hand to The Pilot. "Mr. Moore," he said,
with fine courtesy, "you are a brave man and a good man; I ask your
forgiveness for much rudeness."
But Moore only shook his head while he took the outstretched hand, and
said, brokenly:
"Don't! I can't stand it."
"The Company of the Noble Seven will meet no more," said The Duke, with
a faint smile.
They did meet, however; but when they did, The Pilot was in the chair,
and it was not for poker.
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