“I never heard that he had any family,” murmured the younger, continuing his way, “Sebastian Ulwing did great things for our country.”
Anne looked after them. Was this all that remained of the Ulwing name? Was the memory of his work already gone? The heroic death of Uncle Sebastian, a doubtful legend, was that all that was remembered?
Men came again. Carriages, life, the noise of the town.
Anne went back, across the road, towards the strange house.
That night Thomas became very restless. He tossed from one side to the other and asked several times if Anne was there. He did not see her, though she sat at the side of the bed and held his hand in hers. She held her head quite bravely, there was not a tear in her eyes. She did not want Thomas to read his death sentence from her face.
In the morning Anne felt her hand tenderly pressed.
“Are you here?” asked the pallid, dying man. “All the time I was waiting for you to be here.”
In a few moments Thomas’s features altered amazingly. A shadow fell over them and Anne looked round vainly to find out whence it came. Yet it was there and became darker and darker in the hollow of his eyes, round his mouth.
“I am going now,” said Thomas, “don’t shake your head. I know....”
She could not answer nor could she restrain her tears any longer.