He was still sitting as I had left him.
"Why have you come?" he asked, harshly. "I have been coughing.
I am going to die."
"Then I'll fetch a doctor."
"No."
"A clergyman?"
"No."
But I ran for the doctor.
Fortunio lived on for a week after this, and at length consented to
see a clergyman. I brought the vicar, and was told to leave them
alone together and come back in an hour's time.
When I returned, Fortunio was stretched quietly on the rough bed we
had found for him, and the Vicar, who knelt beside it, was speaking
softly in his ear.
As I entered on tiptoe, I heard--
". . . in that kingdom shall be no weeping--"
"Oh, Parson," interrupted Fortunio, "that's bad. I'm so bored with
laughing that the good God might surely allow a few tears."
The parish buried him, and his books went to pay for the funeral.
But I kept the Virgil; and this, with the few memories that I impart
to you, is all that remains to me of Fortunio.
THE OUTLANDISH LADIES.
A mile beyond the fishing village, as you follow the road that climbs
inland towards Tregarrick, the two tall hills to right and left of
the coombe diverge to make room for a third, set like a wedge in the
throat of the vale. Here the road branches into two, with a
sign-post at the angle; and between the sign-post and the grey scarp
of the hill there lies an acre of waste ground that the streams have
turned into a marsh.
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