“Oh! mother, mother!”
“Dying! me—me dying!” broke from those convulsed lips once more.
Louis De Marke looked up. With his quivering hand he grasped that of the dying woman.
“Yes, mother, believe me, there is but a little time for us to settle all that has gone ill between us. I came to ask you some questions, thinking to meet you in good health. The shock of finding you thus is terrible. I pray God, it is not too late for either of us.”
“Dying! Take it back, take it back! I am well; no pain, no hunger, no thirst. Dying!” and with a miserable effort the woman strove to laugh, but the attempt went off in a gurgle of the throat.
The young man made a great struggle for self-command; but he was very pale, and his lips quivered with the emotions he strove so firmly to suppress.
“Yes, mother, I solemnly believe that this interview will be our last. Your hand is cold, your eyes are—oh! don’t look at me in that way,” he continued, shuddering at the glance she fixed upon him. “Next to the welfare of your soul—”
She interrupted him, groping about with her hand.
“My crucifix—my crucifix!”
He searched under her pillow and around the dim room, while she followed him with her wild, despairing eyes. At last, as if with some sudden resolution, she shrieked out,—