Her eyes kindled; she made a great effort; and at last, as if forced through the ice gathering about her heart, the words, “My son, my son!” shot through her lips.
“Oh! mother, is this all? Can you only speak with this fearful effort? Where is your nurse? Who takes care of you?”
Again she made that fearful struggle, and jerking her arm on one side, pointed downward to the floor.
“My gold. I have gold—gold!”
The young man groaned heavily.
“Do not think of that—your gold is nothing at this hour!”
Again she lifted her finger, and pointed it to his face.
“Gold—it is everything.”
“Hush, mother, hush. At this awful moment think of something else. I fear, I fear you are dying.”
“Dying!” This time the word was forced upward with a shriek so wild and fearful, that the young man sunk to his knees, and buried his face in the soiled bed drapery, shuddering in every limb.