We had turned from the bed, that no eyes but the Queen’s might witness my father’s passing.  Her arm had slipped beneath his head, to support it, and I listened dreading to hear her announce the end.  But yet his great spirit struggled against release, unwilling to exchange its bliss even for bliss celestial; and presently I heard his voice speaking my name.

“Prosper,” he said; but his eyes looked upward into the Queen’s, and his voice, as it grew firmer, seemed to interpret a vision not of earth.  “Learn of me that love, though it delight in youth, yet forsakes not the old; nay, though through life its servant follow and never overtake.  Even such service I have paid it, yet behold I have my reward!

“To you, dear lad, it shall be kinder; yet only on condition that you trust it.

“You will need to trust it, for it will change.  Lose no faith in the beam when, breaking from your lady’s eyes, it fires you not as before.  It widens, lad; it is not slackening; it is passing, enlarging into a diviner light.

“By that light you shall see all men, women, children—­yes, and all living things—­akin with you and deserving your help.  It is the light of God upon earth, and its warmth is God’s charity, though He kindle it first as a selfish spark between a youth and a maid.

“Trust it, then, most of all when it frightens you, its first passion fading.  For then, sickening of what is transient, it dies to put on permanence; as the creature dies—­as I am dying, Prosper—­into the greatness of the Creator.

“Take comfort and courage, then.  For though the narrow beam falls no longer from heaven, you and she will remember the spot where it surprised you, unsealing your eyes.  Let the place, the hour, be sacred, and you the witnesses sacred one to another.  So He that made you ministers shall keep your garlands from fading.

“O Lord of Love, high and heavenly King! who, making the hands of boy and girl to tremble, dost of their thoughtless impulse build up states, establish societies, and people the world, accept these children!

“O Master, who payest not by time, take the thanks of thy servant!  O Captain, receive my sword!  O hands!”—­my father raised his stiffly towards the crucifix which Dom Basilio uplifted, standing a little behind the Queen.  “O wounded hands—­nay, they are shaped like thine, Emilia—­reach and resume my soul! In manus tuas, Domine—­in manus—­ in manus tuas. . . .”

“It is over,” said Dom Basilio, slowly, after a long silence.

I saw the Queen lower the grey head back against its pillow, and turned to the window, where the Princess gazed out over the sea.  For a minute—­maybe for longer—­I stood beside her following her gaze; then, as she lifted a hand and pointed, I was aware of two ships on the south-west horizon, the both under full sail and standing towards the castle.

“Last night,” said I, and paused, wondering if indeed so short a while had passed; “theirs were the guns, off Nonza.”