"Destroy this picture, Cyrus. If you ever meet her keep your knowledge to yourself. Let her be the first—to greet you."
So low was his voice that Cyrus bent forward to get his words.
"Remember, always remember, she is a good woman."
Dr. Alton leaned back and closed his eyes.
A faint smile came to his lips. He whispered a name—
"Francesca."
His thoughts wandered. In spirit he was far from Longfields. Below him gleamed the Adriatic, azure blue. The breath of spring came gently to his cheeks. Before him, and very near, is a woman's face, radiant with beauty and with love, and with unfailing devotion. Her eyes looking deep into his own, searching his innermost thoughts. There are none to hide, for all are hers.
The smile still upon his lips he murmured in French—his voice fainter with each succeeding word—a message.
And the last word, "Francesca," was scarcely a breath.
Cyrus knew that another spirit had joined the countless host: that into these final words a faithful lover had breathed his soul.