"Dear heaven," she cried in despair. "I cannot hear him! I cannot hear him! Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard! Ah——" The appeal ended in a shriek. She was staring into his glazing eyes. Then over the man's face came a change. Peace settled there. The eyes closed and he whispered: "Freda!"
Hearing her frantic grief, Edward rushed in and now stood looking down in deep distress upon the scene.
"He is dead, madame," he said, simply. "Let me see you to your home." She arose, white and calm, by a mighty effort.
"What was he to you? Who are you?" she asked.
"He was my friend and master." He laid his hands lovingly on the eyes, closing them. "I am Edward Morgan!" Her eyes never left him. There was no motion of her tall figure; only her hand upon the veil closed tightly and her features twitched. They stood in silence but a moment; it was broken by Cambia. She had regained something of the bearing of the dramatic soprano. With a simple dignity she said:
"Sir, you have witnessed a painful scene. On the honor of a gentleman give me your pledge to secrecy. There are tragedies in all lives; chance has laid bare to you the youth of Cambia." He pointed downward to where the still form lay between them.
"Above the body of your husband—my friend—I swear to you that your secret is safe."
"I thank you."
She looked a moment upon the form of the sleeper, and then her eyes searched the face of the young man. "Will you leave me alone with him a few moments?" He bowed and again withdrew into the little hall.
When he was gone she knelt above the figure a long time in prayer, and then, looking for the last time upon the dead face, sadly withdrew. The young man took her to the carriage. A policeman was guarding it.