“Will,” said Kitte, “do not grieve. Thou 'rt—the more—free—to serve thy—lady—Saint Truth.”
“Did that grieve thee?” he groaned. “In the Vision 't is a man, Truth.”
“Calote hath—her—love—and thou—freedom.—Better so!”
“Hush, mother, oh, hush!” sobbed Calote. “Dost thou not love us that thou canst leave us lone so willing? Say thou 'rt sorrowing to leave us! Ah, mother, say 't!”
Kitte looked in Long Will's eyes.
“Love us!” he cried. And then, “Kitte,—Kitte, is this likewise failure? What have I done?—Stay,—and learn me to love! Oh, thou true loving wife!—What have I done,—what have I done?—Forgive me!”
“Draw forth—knife,—the more ease,” she said.
The blood came in a great gush very swift.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
And when he had done this, she was dead.