Yet, even in her despair, as she threaded the press with the friar, she felt an anguished pride and thankfulness. The man on whose life these awe-struck thousands trembled—the all that he had been to her! And she had not come too late.
In the cheerless stone room, Mavrocordato, Pietro Gamba and the men of medicine watched beside the conch on which Gordon lay. After a long period of unconsciousness he had opened his eyes.
A moment he looked about the familiar apartment, slowly realizing. He saw the tears on Gamba’s cheeks, the grave sorrow that moulded the prince’s face. In that moment he did not deceive himself.
His look drew Mavrocordato—a look in which was a question, but no fear.
The other bent over him. “An hour, they think,” he said gently.
Gordon closed his eyes. Such a narrow span between this life and the unbridged gulf, between the old questioning and the great solution. An hour, and he should test the worth of Dallas’ creed, should know if the friar of San Lazzarro had been right. An hour, and life would be behind him, with its errors ended, its longings quenched.
Its largest endeavor had been defeated: that was the closest sting. In his weakness all else sank away beside the thought that he had tried—and failed. Even the one blow he might not strike. The nation was in straits, the loan delayed, the campaign unopened. He caught the murmurs of the crowds in the courtyard. His lips framed words: “My poor Greece! Who shall lead you now?”
Yet he had done his best, given his all, even his love. She, Teresa, would know and hold his effort dear because she loved him. But there was another woman—in England—who had hated and despised him. He had piled upon her the mountain of his curse, and that curse had been forgiveness. Must her memory of him be always bitterness? In the fraying fringe of life past resentments were worn pitifully small. Should he go without one tenderer word to Annabel?
He tried to lift himself. “Fletcher!” he said aloud.