Then was silence; nothing but the beating of their breath.
“Brassid—dear—if we do not—get home—stay with me! I do not want—to—stay out here—alone! Oh! Alone! Brassid—will you—stay with me—no—matter—no matter—”
“No matter—what!”
Perhaps it was wrong to say that. But his love was what he had called it—the big love. She gave up.
“Then—beloved—if you—will stay—with—me—”
She could even smile at him.
“The Indian-fighter—the whaler!” pleaded Brassid.
“Yes.”
She responded, and again and again responded. But he saw her first stroke fail. Each of his own cost what seemed a life.
“I am too—tired—Brassid.”