"O God, thou hast changed, Albano," she began, after a long gaze. "Thou lookest quite hollow: art thou so sick, love?" she asked, with that old anxiety of affection which neither the pious father nor the last genius, who makes man cold towards life and love, ere he withdraws them, had been able to take from her heart. "O, would to God!—No, I am not," said he, and stifled, out of forbearance, the internal storm; for he would so gladly have poured out his woe, his love, his death-wish before her in one mortal cry, as a nightingale sings herself to death and falls headlong from the branch.
Her chilled eye long rested, warming itself, upon his face, full of inexpressible love, and at last she said with a heavy smile, "So, then, thou lovest me again, Albano! Thou wast even in Lilar wholly in error. After a long time my Albano will begin to learn why I separated from him,—only for his good. On this, this my dying-day, I tell thee that my heart has been ever true to thee. Believe me! My heart is with God, my words are true. See, this is why I begged thee to come to me to-day,—for thou shalt mildly, without remorse, without reproach, in thy long-coming life, look over upon thy first youthful love. To-day thou wilt not take it ill of thy little Linda[[59]] that she speaks of dying,—seest thou haply that I was then in the right? Bring me the leaf yonder!"
He obeyed; it was a sketch which she had made with trembling hand to represent Linda's noble head. Albano did not look upon the leaf. "Take it to thyself," said she; he did so. "How kind and compliant thou art!" said she. "Thou deservest her,—I name her not to thee,—as the reward of thy fidelity towards me. She is more worthy of thee than I; she is blooming, like thyself, not sick, like me; but never do her wrong; it is my last wish that thou shouldst love her. Wilt thou distress me, determined spirit, by a vehement No?"
"Heavenly soul!" he cried, and looked upon her beseechingly, and presented her the stifled No as an offering to the dead. "I answer thee not. Ah, forgive, forgive that earlier time!" For now he saw for the first time, how meekly, gently, and yet fervently, the still, tender soul had loved him, who even yet, in the dissolution of the body, spoke and loved as in the beautiful days of Lilar, just as the melting bell in the burning steeple still continues, from the midst of the flames, to sound out the hours.
"Now, then, farewell, beloved!" she said, calmly, and without a tear, and her feeble hand offered to press his; "a happy journey into the beautiful land! Accept eternal thanks for thy love and truth, for the thousand joyous hours which I will, up yonder, at length deserve;[[60]] for Lilar's fair flowers.... The children of my Chariton have put them on me.[[61]] ... Je ne suis qu'un songe.[[62]] What was I going to say to thee, Albano? My farewell! Forsake not my brother! O how thou weepest! I will still pray for thee!"
The dying have dry eyes. The tempestuous weather of life ends with cold air. They know not how their babbling tongue cuts into widely rent hearts. This most gentle soul knew not how she thrust sword upon sword through Albano, who now felt that to the saint whom already the spring-gales, the spring-fragrances of the eternal shore were floating to meet and welcome, he could be nothing more, give nothing more, nor even so much as take from her her humility.
When she had said it, her head, with the crown of flowers, raised itself upright; inspired, she drew her hand out of his, and prayed aloud with fervor: "Hear my prayer, O God! and let him be happy till he enters into thy glory. And should he err and waver, then spare him, O God, and let me appear to him and exhort him. But to thee alone, O all-gracious one, be praise and thanks uttered for my pleasant, peaceful life on the earth; thou wilt, after I have rested, bestow on me up yonder the fair morning in which I may work.... Wake me early from the sleep of death.... Wake me, wake!... Mother, the morning-red[[63]] lies already upon the trees."
At this moment, her mother, with other persons, rushed into the chamber. Her vision, bewildered with the drowsiness of death and the wandering of her speech, announced that the cold sleep with open eyes was now at hand. "Appear to me, thou art indeed with God!" cried Albano, distracted. In vain would Augusti have led him away; without answering, without stirring, he stood fast-rooted there. Liana grew paler and paler; death arrayed her in the white bridal garment of Heaven; then his eye ceased its weeping, grief froze, and the broad, heavy ice of anguish filled his breast.
Liana's eye was fixed steadily on a light spot of the softly veiled evening heavens, as if seeking and waiting for the heavens to lift and show the sun. Indifferent to all present, her brother stormed in with his lamentation: "Go not to God, or I shall see thee no more! Look on me, bless, sanctify me, give me thy peace, sister!" She was silently lost in the lightening and breaking sun-cloud. "She takes thee for me," said Albano to Charles, on account of the similarity of their voices, "and gives thee not her peace." "Steal not my voice!" said Charles, angrily. "O, leave her in peace," said the mother, out of whose downcast eyes only a few light tears fell trembling on the garland of the daughter, whose faint head, upturned toward heaven, she held, leaning against herself, with both hands.
All at once, when the sun opened the clouds like eyelids, and looked serenely from beneath, the still form quivered. The dying see double; she saw two sun-balls, and cried, clinging to her mother, "Ah, mother, how large and fiery his eyes are!" She saw Death standing in heaven. "Cover me with the pall," she begged, distressfully,—"my veil!" Her brother caught it up, and covered with it the wandering eyes and the flowers and locks. The sun, too, mercifully veiled himself again with clouds.