The purple lids opened, and Gloria looked up. There was no shiver now, as she recognized the man she feared, for the nerves were almost dead. Perhaps there was less fear, for she knew that it was almost over. The dark eyes were fixed on his with a mysterious, wondering look.
He tried to speak, and his lips moved, but he could make no sound, and his chest heaved convulsively, once. He knew what she had done, for they had told him. He knew, now that he tried to speak and could not, that he was half killed by grief. She saw the effort and understood, and faintly smiled.
"Why?"
He wrenched the single broken word out of himself by an enormous effort, and his throat swelled and was dry. Suddenly a single great drop of sweat rolled down his pale forehead.
"I could not live," she answered, in a cool, far voice beyond suffering, and still she smiled.
"Why? Why?"
The repeated word broke out twice like two sobs, but not a feature moved. The dying woman's eyelids quivered.
"I was a burden to you," she said faintly and distinctly. "You are free now, you have—only the child."
His calm broke.
"Gloria, Gloria! In the name of God Almighty, do not leave me so!"