"Only that, chérie," he made answer, very gently.
"Then"—she was sobbing terribly, but she suffered his hands to raise her—"don't let them—send me away, Bertie. I can't go—while he lives. It—it would hurt him more, if I went."
"No, no, chérie," he answered her reassuringly. "You will be brave, yes? See, I will hold your hand. We will go just across the road, but not beyond his sight. He will see you. He will know that you are near. There—there, chérie! Shut your eyes! It will be finished soon."
He put his arm around her, for she stumbled blindly. They went across the road as he had said, and halted under the trees on the farther side.
There followed a pause—an interval that was terrible—during which only the low crying of an animal in pain was audible.
Bertrand stood like a rock, still holding her. "But you will not look, chérie," he whispered to her softly. "It is deliverance—this death. Soon—soon he will not cry any more."
She pressed her face against his shoulder, wrapped in the close security of his arms, and waited, drawing each breath with difficulty, saying no word.
She did not know what was happening, and she dared not look. She could only wait in anguish for the whimpering that tore her heart to cease.
"Now, chérie!" whispered Bertrand at last, and she stiffened in his arms, preparing for she knew not what.
His hold tightened. For that instant he pressed her hard against his heart, so that she heard its quick beating.