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"I am lying in my last bed save one, Roland," said the sufferer, in low concentrated voice; "we have not all died in our beds, we Ruthvens of that ilk, but it shall be said that all have died with honour except——"

"Except who, father?"

The old man trembled as if with ague, and closed his eyes, as he said hoarsely—

"I cannot tell you—in time you will know all!"

"You have been a good soldier to the Queen, father."

"But a bad servant to her Master."

"Do not speak thus!" said Roland, imploringly.

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness; and I have been bad, evil, wicked—false!"

"This is some fancy."

"It is not!" said Patrick Ruthven, emphatically.

"Then can I make amends?"

"You may, if it is not too late, my poor Roland. Oh, my God!"

These mysterious words filled the listener with genuine grief and alarm. Was it all some hallucination? What did they import or refer to? For much in his father's moody and wayward life, in his latter years especially, seemed to corroborate them, and to hint that there was "a skeleton in the house," as the doctor had ventured to say.