"Yes, we have let her go. We have let all of them go."
"All of them," echoed the dying man, feebly, with wandering eyes. Suddenly he brightened again and tossed his arms. "Why, there you were wrong, Jean-Baptiste; the community must be protected." His voice sank to a murmur. "He would not take off--'you must remem'--" He was silent. "You must remem'--those people are--are not--white people." He ceased a moment. "Where am I going?" He began evidently to look, or try to look, for some person; but they could not divine his wish until, with piteous feebleness, he called:
"Aurore De Grapion!"
So he had known her all the time.
Honoré's mother had dropped on her knees beside the bed, dragging Aurora down with her.
They rose together.
The old man groped distressfully with one hand. She laid her own in it.
"Honoré!
"What could he want?" wondered the tearful family. He was feeling about with the other hand.
"Hon'--Honoré"--his weak clutch could scarcely close upon his nephew's hand.