Suffer me to kiss thee—my brother—before we part....
He made no reply, but he gasped for breath and shook all over, and stretched out his arms with a giddy convulsive motion toward her.
—Before we part forever George—dear George, putting her hand affectionately upon his shoulder and looking him steadily in the face. We are now very near to the threshold of death, and I do believe—I do—though I would not have said as much an hour ago, for the wealth of all this world ... nay, not even to save my life ... no ... nor my sister’s life ... nor thy life ... that I shall die the happier and the better for having kissed thee ... my brother.
Still he spoke not ... he had no tongue for speech. The dreadful truth broke upon him all at once now, a truth which penetrated his heart like an arrow ... and he strove to throw his arms about her; to draw her up to his bosom—but the chains that he wore prevented him, and so he leaned his head upon her shoulder ... and kissed her cheek, and then lifted himself up, and held her with one arm to his heart, and kissed her forehead and her eyes and her mouth, in a holy transport of affection.
Dear George ... I am happy now ... very, very happy now, said the poor girl, shutting her eyes and letting two or three large tears fall upon his locked hands, which were held by her as if ... as if ... while her mouth was pressed to them with a dreadful earnestness, her power to let them drop was no more. And then she appeared to recollect herself, and her strength appeared to come back to her, and she rose up and set her lips to his forehead with a smile, that was remembered by the rough jailor to his dying day, so piteous and so death-like was it, and said to Burroughs, in her mild quiet way—her mouth trembling and her large tears dropping at every word—very, very happy now, and all ready for death. I would say more ... much more if I might, for I have not said the half I had to say. Thee will see her ... I shall not see her again....
How—
Not if thee should prevail with her to stay, George. It would be of no use—it would only grieve her, and it might unsettle us both—
What can I say to you?
Nothing—Thee will see her; and thee will take her to thy heart as thee did me, and she will be happy—very happy—even as I am now.
Father—Father! O, why was I not prepared for this! Do thou stay me—do thou support me—it is more than I can bear! cried Burroughs, turning away from the admirable creature who stood before him trying to bear up without his aid, though she shook from head to foot with uncontrollable emotion.