He dared not tell her that Philip was already there awaiting her coming; dared not give her a shock which should shorten her almost closed life by one moment. The thread was nearly run out now; why snap it at the end!
Therefore, still he held his peace.
"Where was I? What saying?" she asked, staring at him, and he noticed that her eyes were more glassy than before. "What? And--and--why has it grown so dark? Is the night at hand?"
"Not yet, Marion," Andrew answered, in a broken voice. "Not yet, poor child. And--it will be lighter soon."
"I pray God. A light clear as day, in which I shall see Philip. Philip! We are affianced still--are we not?" she asked suddenly, her hot, feverish hand closing more tightly on his.
"Always. Always. Have patience, dear one. It cannot be long ere you and he meet again."
His words, though, it may be, she did not grasp their meaning, seemed to bring comfort to her as she lay dying there. Soon she grew as tranquil as before; began once more her recital.
"When he heard that, he said then all hope was gone for him; that--that he must forget he had ever known and loved me. Must go away, return to France, live for his profession of arms alone. Philip--Andrew--the light does not come."
"Patience, dear Marion."
But, as he calmed her, he knew that the end was very near at hand; feared, too, that, ere she went, her story would not be told. He doubted if she would ever speak again.