Poor Jack Harkaway! If ever in his young life he had felt grief, it was now, when he saw one who had so hopelessly loved him, dying through that very love.
"I am not afraid to die," said Thyra, in her low, faint voice, "and to die in this way is the best of all; for my future life might have made both you and myself unhappy."
"Unhappy! How could that be, Thyra?" asked Jack, as he knelt beside her, his hand clasped in hers, her dying eyes looking upwards into his face.
"Because your love is given to another," she sighed, "and, therefore, mine is hopeless; but oh, may that other—whoever she may be—be now and ever happy in your love."
"You have died for my sake!" he said, "and can you think I can feel any thing but the deepest gratitude, the most tender feelings, towards you? No, dear Thyra, I love you now, if I have not before."
"To hear that from your lips," she murmured, "is to die happy. All I ask now, is that you will always remember the little Greek girl who loved you, and—and who was unhappy in her life, and happy in her death."
"Remember you!" said Jack, "remember you, my noble Thyra! after what you have done? Always! always! Do not pain me by fearing that I may forget you."
"Then I am happy still; listen. Here are a chain and a cross of gold; keep them in remembrance of me, and when I am dead, have me conveyed, if it is possible, to the land of my birth, the beautiful island of Naxos, where my parents still live. Bury me there."
Jack promised this, and the old captain of the ship declared that he would have her last request fulfilled.
Thyra's strength was now almost exhausted, but, with a last effort, she raised herself from Jack's supporting arms, and addressed those around her.