"Ten years—since—I saw her," he whispered. "Good girl—Marcile. She loves you, but she—is afraid." He tried to say something more, but his tongue refused its office.
"Where is she-spik!" commanded Grassette in a tone of pleading and agony now.
Once more the flying spirit came back. A hand made a motion towards his pocket, then lay still.
Grassette felt hastily in the dead man's pocket, drew forth a letter, and with half-blinded eyes read the few lines it contained. It was dated from a hospital in New York, and was signed: "Nurse Marcile."
With a moan of relief Grassette stood staring at the dead man. When the others came to him again, his lips were moving, but they did not hear what he was saying. They took up the body and moved away with it up the ravine.
"It's all right, Grassette. You'll be a freeman," said the Sheriff.
Grassette did not answer. He was thinking how long it would take him to get to Marcile, when he was free.
He had a true vision of beginning life again with Marcile.
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