A silent throng of perfectly still figures, heads bowed, mourning with an anguished passion. It was a day of miserable despair, a day that would not be forgotten.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes heaved a grief-stricken sigh as he gazed with a painfully heavy heart at the massive, burnished gravestone before him.

Flashback
"Andrew..." Sir Percy murmured, weakly. "I'm not going to make it..."
"No, Percy, don't you dare think like that." Andrew said, fiercely gripping his almighty leader's ice-cold hand.
Percy attempted a strained smile. "Andrew."
"Yes?"
"Andrew..." Percy's breathing was shallow and uneven.
"What is it, Percy?" Andrew asked, swallowing the agonizing lump in his throat.
"Tell Marguerite that I will always love her." Percy whispered, his breath coming in short bursts.
"No Percy, hold on! Don't let go! You'll make it!" Andrew said, but deep down in his heart he knew it wasn't true.
"I'm so cold, Andrew...so very cold."
"No! Hold on! Don't let go!"
Percy tightly clutched his friend's slippery hand. "I suppose my sport was my end, Andrew. They seek me here, they seek me there..." he trailed off, his face contorting with pain.
Andrew was silent.
"I was demmed lucky, my dear fellow." Percy murmured, a trace of his wry good-humoured sparkle momentarily reappearing in his electric blue eyes. "Demmed lucky. You were the best friend an inane fop like me could have hoped for. Forgive me, Andrew..."
"Percy, don't you do this!" Andrew's hands trembled violently.
"Andrew, promise me..." Percy's pure British voice was alarmingly faint. "Promise me that...you will never give in to anguish and despair."
"Percy..."
"Promise me, Andrew..." Percy trailed off and his grip slackened.
"Percy." Andrew whispered. "Percy..."
He was gone.
"NO! Percy, why?" Andrew yelled, in desolation. Then he sighed and a miserable tear leaked from beneath his closed eyelids. "I guess even the Scarlet Pimpernel was not invincible."

A solitary tear rolled down Andrew's cheek as he remembered that fateful day.
He glanced around the silent multitude – Lady Marguerite Blakeney stood, her entire frame shaken with grievous sobs, her beautiful face hidden by her slender, willowy fingers, his wife Suzanne beside her, although she looked placid and self-controlled, her cheeks were stained thoroughly with glistening humidity of silent tears. Lord Antony Dewhurst and Lord Timothy Hastings stood on either side of Sir Andrew and he could feel the thickness and extent of their terrible grief for their almighty leader. Armand St Just, though he held his chin up with pride and sufficient restraint, tears were on the brink of spilling out. Behind, in a direct row stood the rest of the league of the Scarlet Pimpernel, heads bowed low in obvious respect and distress for their audacious, heroic chief.
Sir Andrew almost felt Percy's affable presence, his strong, warm hand on his shoulder, yet when he turned slightly there was noone there. Andrew felt a pang of disappointment and anguish - it had felt so real, so warm. But he was gone. He was gone and he wasn't coming back. Ever.
Here Lies Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet
1768- 1795
They seek him here,
They seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere
Is he in heaven?
Or is he in hell?
That damned elusive Pimpernel.

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