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Said the Doctor, “That’s all very well, Pond, but the church musicianers can’t march with their music, as you told me just now.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. We’ll have Miller Penrose’s covered three-horse waggon to march ahead of the coffin. Hang it in black and go slow, and all the musicianers can sit around inside and play away as merry as grigs.”

“The cover’ll give the music a sort of muffly sound; but that,” Lieutenant Clogg suggested, “will be all the more fitty for a funeral.”

“So it will, Clogg; so it will. But we’re wasting time. I suppose you won’t object, sir, to be marched down to my house by the Company? It’s the regular thing in case of taking a prisoner, and you’ll be left to yourself as soon as you get to my door.”

“Not at all,” said M. Trinquier amiably.

“Then, gentlemen, fall in! The practice is put off. And when you get home, mind you change your stockings, all of you. We’re in luck’s way this morning, but that’s no reason for recklessness.”

So M. Trinquier, sometime Director of Periodical Festivities to the Municipality of Dieppe, was marched down into East Looe, to the wonder and delight of the inhabitants, who had just recovered from the shock of Gunner Spettigew’s false alarm, and were in a condition to be pleased with trifles. As the Company tramped along the street, Captain Pond pointed out the Town Hall to his prisoner.

“That will be the most convenient place to hold your practices. And that is Fugler’s house, just opposite.”

“But we cannot practise without making a noise.”

“I hope not, indeed. Didn’t I promise you a big drum?”

“But in that case the sick man will hear. It will disturb his last moments.”

“Confound the fellow, he can’t have everything! If he’d asked for peace and quiet, he should have had it. But he didn’t: he asked for a Dead March. Don’t trouble about Fugler. He’s not an unreasonable man. The only question is, if the Doctor here can keep him going until you’re perfect with the tune.”

And this was the question upon which the men of Looe, and especially the Die-hards, hung breathless for the next few days. M. Trinquier produced his score; the musicianers came forward eagerly; Miller Penrose promised his waggon; the big drum arrived from Plymouth in the trader Good Intent, and was discharged upon the quay amid enthusiasm. The same afternoon, at four o’clock, M. Trinquier opened his first practice in the Town Hall, by playing over the air of the “Dead Marching Soul”–(to this the popular mouth had converted the name)–upon his cornet, just to give his pupils a general notion of it.

The day had been a fine one, with just that suspicion of frost in the air which indicates winter on the warm south-western coast. While the musicians were assembling the Doctor stepped across the street to see how the invalid would take it. Fugler–a sharp-featured man of about fifty, good-looking, with blue eyes and a tinge of red in his hair–lay on his bed with his mouth firmly set and his eyes resting, wistfully almost, on the last wintry sunbeam that floated in by the geraniums on the window-ledge. He had not heard the news. For five days now he expected nothing but the end, and lay and waited for it stoically and with calm good temper.

The Doctor took a seat by the bed-side, and put a question or two. They were answered by Mrs. Fugler, who moved about the small room quietly, removing, dusting and replacing the china ornaments on the chimneypiece. The sick man lay still, with his eyes upon the sunbeam.

And then very quietly and distinctly the notes of M. Trinquier’s key-bugle rose outside on the frosty air.

The sick man started, and made as if to raise himself on his elbow, but quickly sank back again–perhaps from weakness, perhaps because he caught the Doctor’s eye and the Doctor’s reassuring nod. While he lay back and listened, a faint flush crept into his face, as though the blood ran quicker in his weak limbs; and his blue eyes took a new light altogether.