Ward passed without a word down the winding staircase ahead of him, without a backward glance at the four left in the old studio. Carlota turned to Griffeth’s close embrace, weeping in deep soft sobs of relief, and the Marchese smiled at Maria.
“The leaves lie thick in the Square. They are sweeping them up to burn. Will you walk with me, Maria, and remember Vallombrosa while these children follow their own path of gold? Then we will take up the business of life once more, and put the rubies and papers in safety deposit, but for now—”
He held the door open for her, and they passed down the way that Ward had gone. Carlota lifted her head from Griffeth’s shoulder.
“Heirs of to-morrow, he said,” she whispered.
He kissed her lips. There seemed in their love almost a symbol of the fulfillment of years of war, of tears and bloodshed and oppression and intolerance, in what would be the dawn of a new world to those who were indeed the heirs of to-morrow.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.