“Is he worse?” she asked.
“I don’t know; I think—he has fainted.”
The nurse gave one look at the bed, and divined the truth.
“He is dead,” she whispered, kissing the marble brow.
“Good-by, my darling boy; God has taken you to His rest.”
Archag was convulsed with tears, as he knelt at the foot of the bed.
The boys planted cyclamen on Samouīl’s grave, as he had wished, and in the spring, when the fields are full of flowers, it is covered with a wonderful carpet of pink and white.