dwell on this, and the loss of that brother, was little short of madness, and yet De Haldimar could think of nothing else; nor for a period could the loud booming of the cannon from the ramparts, every report of which shook his chamber to its very foundations, call off his attention from a subject which, while it pained, engrossed every faculty and absorbed every thought.  At length, towards the close, he called faintly to the old and faithful soldier, who, at the foot of the bed, stood watching every change of his master’s countenance, to know the cause of the cannonade.  On being informed the batteries in the rear were covering the retreat of Captain Erskine, who, in his attempt to obtain the body, had been surprised by the Indians, a new direction was temporarily given to his thoughts, and he now manifested the utmost impatience to know the result.

In a few minutes Morrison, who, in defiance of the surgeon’s strict order not on any account to quit the room, had flown to obtain some intelligence which he trusted might remove the anxiety of his suffering master, again made his appearance, stating the corpse was already secured, and close under the guns of the fort, beneath which the detachment, though hotly assailed from the forest, were also fast retreating.

“And is it really my brother, Morrison?  Are you quite certain that it is Captain de Haldimar?” asked the young officer, in the eager accents of one who, with the fullest conviction on his mind, yet grasps at the faintest shadow of a consoling doubt.  “Tell me that it is not my brother, and half of what I possess in the world shall be yours.”

The old soldier brushed a tear from his eye.  “God bless you, Mr. de Haldimar, I would give half my grey hairs to be able to do so; but it is, indeed, too truly the captain who has been killed.  I saw the very wings of his regimentals as he lay on his face on the litter.”

Charles de Haldimar groaned aloud.  “Oh God! oh God! would I had never lived to see this day.”  Then springing suddenly up in his bed.—­“Morrison, where are my clothes?  I insist on seeing my slaughtered brother myself.”

“Good Heaven, sir, consider,” said the old man approaching the bed, and attempting to replace the covering which had been spurned to its very foot,—­“consider you are in a burning fever, and the slightest cold may kill you altogether.  The doctor’s orders are, you were on no account to get up.”

The effort made by the unfortunate youth was momentary.  Faint from the blood he had lost, and giddy from the excitement of his feelings, he sank back exhausted on his pillow, and wept like a child.

Old Morrison shed tears also; for his heart bled for the sufferings of one whom he had nursed and played with even in early infancy, and whom, although his master, he regarded with the affection he would have borne to his own child.  As he had justly observed, he would have willingly given half his remaining years to be able to remove the source of the sorrow which so deeply oppressed him.