That very night Gerard flung himself into the Tiber. And, that very hour she heard him speak her name, he cried aloud in death's jaws and despair's.
"Margaret!"
Account for it those who can. I cannot.
CHAPTER LXXI
IN the guest chamber of a Dominican convent lay a single stranger, exhausted by successive and violent fits of nausea, which had at last subsided, leaving him almost as weak as Margaret lay that night in Holland.
A huge wood fire burned on the hearth, and beside it hung the patient's clothes.
A gigantic friar sat by his bedside reading pious collects aloud from his breviary.
The patient at times eyed him, and seemed to listen: at others closed his eyes and moaned.