His hands twitched feebly.
“Are you still there? Have they all gone?”
His hands dropped limply to his sides. Those near him touched his fingers, but could not speak.
“I can feel you are with me still. But I cannot move my hands. Is this death?”
He breathed with difficulty.
Suddenly, with his old, powerful voice, he cried aloud:
“Alma, Alma!”
He raised himself up in bed and then fell back. Guest the One-eyed—a Guest on earth for twenty weary years—was no more. And Sera Ketill, priest, had won the peace he sought.
Those who watched and understood had eyes only for the man there on the bed. None noticed the Danish Lady.
When her name was called, Alma clutched at her heart. Now she sat still, looking vaguely round. Then, rising, she asked in a new voice that made the others start.