“And—and you asked him to explain his cursed conduct?”
“I asked him to explain.”
“And—and—what—what?” panted the old man furiously.
“No; he did not explain, dear,” said Myra, drawing her father’s arm about her neck, and raising herself a little from the couch so as to nestle on his breast. “It is fate, dear. I am never to leave you now. Keep me, dear, and protect me. It is not his fault. Something terrible has happened to him—something he could not own to, even to me—who was to have been his wife.”
“Edie—Guest—help!” panted the admiral. “Myra, my darling! She’s dying!”
“No, no, dear,” she said, with a low moan, as she clung to him more tightly, “a little faint—that’s all. Ah! hold me to you, dear,” she sighed almost in a whisper. “Safe—with you.”
And then to herself:
“He said his punishment was greater than he could bear. Malcolm, my own—my own!”