In the cold moonlight the figure lay to all appearances dead.
Durham tore open the front of the shirt and pushed in his hand to feel if the heart still beat.
With the moaning cry of a heart-broken man he reeled back. Then, in a wild fervour born of his soul's despair, he fell on his knees beside the prostrate form and tenderly drew the lolling head to his breast and moistened the blue lips with the spirit.
"Oh, speak! Speak to me! Nora, speak to me and tell me," he wailed.
He reached to take her hands and remembered how he had bound the arms. Quickly he set them free and chafed the limp fingers.
"Rum—quick—drink," came in a wavering whisper, and he poured some of the potent spirit between the lips.
Holding her in his arms, with her head resting on his shoulder, he waited, listening to her faint breathing.
"A little more and—I——"
She was able to raise her hand to steady the bottle which he held. Then her head fell over again and she lay inert.
He turned his face to watch her. In a momentary fit of remorse and grief he pressed his lips to hers.