"I could not leave thee without telling how I loved thee," she whispered, lifting up the hand I had not imprisoned in mine, and resting it on my shoulder, where it lay like a lily. "I tried so hard to forget thee, but since that love feast—thou knowest which one—thou wast ever with me."
"That love feast was paradise, my beloved sister; but thou must not talk so much, I fear."
"Nay, I know my end is near; I am not afraid now."
In a few moments she whispered shyly, "Dost remember the witch?"
"Yea, I could have slain her for frightening thee so."
"But when thou didst take me into thy great arms and soothe and pity me like some little child, I was almost glad I had seen the witch."
"Thou foolish girl, how canst care so for such a great, clumsy, stupid brother like me?"
She lay a few minutes as if she could not whisper more, and then, after I thought she had forgotten what I had just said, she whispered, but more feebly than before, "Thou'rt not clumsy or stupid; thou art so strong but so tender—I love thee better than life." And then she seemed so exhausted I was obliged to lay her head off my breast to her pillow thinking she could breathe more easily, but the gentle pressure of her hand on my shoulder and the nestling touch of the one on my own told me she preferred it thus.
I know not how long I held her in mine embrace, but she again opened her eyes and whispered, pausing between each word, "Thou wilt be with me in heaven?"
"Yea, mein Liebchen, forever and forever," I murmured holding her to me still more closely, whereat she smiled and whispered, but so low and broken I could hardly hear it, "I am so happy," and then I felt a shudder pass through the dear frame in mine arms; her head fell limp and lifeless from my shoulder, and I knew that from within the narrow walls of the bare, cold cell, and out through the dark night, there was winging its way to heaven the soul of my sister, my Bernice.