I was on my knees, staring up at this beloved shape through blinding tears and babbling I know not what. And then arms were about me, tender yet strong and compelling, a soft cheek was pressed to mine and in my ear Joan's voice:
"Oh, my beloved—fret not thyself—here is no vision, my Martin—"
"Joan!" I panted. "Oh, Damaris—beloved!" And shaking off these fettering arms, I rose to my feet. "Joan, is it thou thyself in very truth, or do I see thee in heaven—"
And now it seemed I was sinking within an engulfing darkness and nought to see save only the pale oval of this so loved, oft-visioned face that held for me the beauty of all beauteous things. At last her voice reached me, soft and low, yet full of that sweet, vital ring that was beyond all forgetting.
"Martin—Oh, Martin!"
Out towards me in the growing dark I saw her hands reach down to me: and then these eager, welcoming hands were seized and Joanna was between us on her knees.
"Spare him—Oh, lady, in mercy spare my beloved—kill me an you will, but spare this man of mine—these arms have cradled him ere now, this bosom been his pillow—"
"Joan!" I muttered, "Oh, Damaris, beloved—"
But seeing the stricken agony of her look and how she shrank from my touch, I uttered a great cry and turning, sped blindly away and stumbling, fell and was engulfed in choking blackness.