"No,—no!" cried the countess, vehemently. "You could not die here! You are not dying! You cannot, shall not die!"
She spoke as though she believed that her potent volition could frighten away the death-angels hovering near, and prolong his life.
Madeleine had attempted to withdraw her hand from his, for his mother had seized the other clay-cold hand; but he said, with a faint smile, "Don't go, Madeleine; do not leave me until I cannot see you and feel you more." Then making a great effort to rally his expiring energies, he continued, "Mother, love Madeleine! We need angels about us to lift us up when we fall. Keep her near you if you would be comforted when the hour that has come to me comes to you!"
The countess did not reply, but the hand she held had grown so clammy, she could no longer refuse to believe that her son might be dying. Still she was not softened; she could not turn to Madeleine and embrace her, as the dying man so obviously desired.
"Maurice," said his father.
Maurice approached, and the countess instinctively drew a step back, to give him room. She had dropped the marble hand, and Maurice took it in his.
"Maurice, you, too, have much to pardon. Madeleine has forgiven,—will not you?"
"Oh, my father, do not speak of that! All is well between us; but, if we must indeed lose you,—tell me,—tell Madeleine that you give her to me. She loves me, she has never loved any other; and I never have loved,—never can love any woman but her. Bid her be my wife, for she has refused to let me claim her without your consent and my grandmother's."
Count Tristan tried to speak, but the words died upon the lips that essayed to form themselves into a smile of assent. He lifted Madeleine's hand and placed it in that of Maurice.
A convulsed groan, or sob, broke from the countess, but it was unheard by her son; his spirit had taken its flight.