“Is not that the sun?” said Marsa, pointing to the April rays entering the old feudal hall and making the bits of dust dance like sparks of gold.
“It is the April sun, and it is sometimes dangerous for—”
The doctor paused; and, as he did not finish, Marsa said gently, with a smile which had something more than resignation in it—happiness:
“For the dying?”
Andras shuddered; but Marsa’s hand, which held his, did not even tremble.
Old Varhely’s eyes were dim with tears.
She knew that she was about to die. She knew it, and smiled at kindly death. It would take away all shame. Her memory would be to Andras the sacred one of the woman he adored. She would die without being held to keep that oath she had made not to survive her dreamed-of happiness, the union she had desired and accepted. Yes, it was sweet and welcome, this death, which taking her from Andras’s love, washed away all stain.
She whispered in his ear the oft-repeated avowal:
“I love you! I love you! I love you! And I die content, for I feel that you will love me always. Think a moment! Could I live? Would there not be a spectre between you and your Marsa?”
She threw her arms about him as he leaned over the couch upon which she lay, and he made a gesture of denial, unable to speak, for each word would have been a sob.