“You stan’ far back,” said Grassette, and they fell away.
Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast drawing its veil.
“Marcile—where is Marcile?” he asked.
The dying man’s lips opened. “God forgive me—God save my soul!” he whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now.
“Queeck—queeck, where is Marcile?” Grassette said, sharply. “Come back, Bignold. Listen—where is Marcile?”
He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled to be free.
“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 toward 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.”