Only a feeble breath escaped Lord Radclyffe's parted lips: there was no distortion in the face, and the hands lay still, waxen-white, against the quilt. Louisa looked down on the sick man without, at first, attempting to speak. She looked down on this the last cord of hope's broken lute, the frail thread on which hung Luke's one chance of safety: this feeble life almost ended, this weak breath which alone could convey words of hope! For the moment Louisa's heart almost misgave her, when she thought of what she meant to do: to bring, namely, this wandering spirit back to earth, in order to make it conscious of such misery as no heart of man could endure and not break. It seemed like purposeless, inhuman cruelty!
Even if she could call that enfeebled mind back to the hideous realities of to-day, what chance was there that the few words which this dying man could utter would be those that could save Luke from the gallows?
Was it not better to let the broken heart sink to rest in peace, the weakened mind go back to the land of shadows unconscious of further sorrow?
Uncertain now, and vaguely fearful she looked up at the portrait of Luke. The eyes in the magnificently painted portrait seemed endowed with amazing vitality. To the loving, heart-broken woman it seemed as if they made a direct appeal to her. Yet, what appeal did they make?
To let the old man—"Uncle Rad"—die in peace, ignorant of the awful fate which must inevitably befall the man whom he loved with such strange, such enduring affection?
Or did those eyes ask for help there, where no other human being could lend assistance now?
"Lord Radclyffe!"
The words escaped her suddenly, almost frightening her, though all along she knew that she had meant to speak.
"Do you know me, Lord Radclyffe?" she said again, "it is Louisa Harris."
No reply. The great eyes with the shadow of death over them were gazing on the face on which they had always loved to dwell.