“Bella!” he whispered, hoarsely, “what was there between you? Was he your husband?”
She understood the significance of his tone, the hope that shone so vividly in his dark eyes, and she managed to shake her head.
“No! Yes—we were married, but—he is not my husband. You——”
Her breath failed her; the hope died out of his eyes, but he raised her into a more comfortable position. Both had forgotten the miserable wretch who crouched near them, listening as well as the tolling of the death bell in his ears would let him. After a pause—during which she struggled for breath—she panted, her voice almost inaudible:
“Don’t—don’t spare him, Cly! He—he isn’t—worth it! Ah—I—I can’t tell you! And there’s so—so much! so much! If I could, you’d—you’d forgive me! Yes, you would! Hold me higher, Cly! Have pity on me, and—and forgive me! I’m not so—so bad as you—think! Oh, if I—could tell you! Cly—there’s—there’s a mistake! I——” a low cry of terror and dread, a piteous cry rang from her lips, and her eyes dwelt upon his face with a terrible entreaty. “Forgive me, Cly, it’s—it’s not so bad—you are——Forgive——”
She stopped. Death, who had been hovering over with outstretched hand, let his iron fingers fall and grasp her. A slight tremor passed over her face, and then——
Will it be remembered when the final account is settled that the last words on her lips were a prayer for forgiveness?
The silence of the grave reigned in the dreadful spot for a moment or two; then Bartley Bradstone raised himself, and, crawling nearer, peered at her. He fell back with a moaning whine.
“She’s—she’s dead!” he gasped.
“Yes,” said Faradeane, in a strangely subdued tone, “she is dead. Your work is finished.”