The man had lifted the fainting woman; her emaciated form rested against his shoulder, as he supported her on the side of the bed.
Emory moved in front of them, followed by his trembling companions, who dared not speak. The dying woman put out her hands, groping as if in darkness, and as she felt Neil’s hands touch her own a smile quivered over her lips, while, slowly and with difficulty, she spoke:
“Neil, forgive!”
He bowed his head upon his breast, as the stranger laid her down, and her eyes closed,—forever.
A cold hand touched his, and Gwendoline was beside him. He drew her out upon the long piazza, and they stood for a little while in silence beneath the stars. Then, opening his arms, he clasped her to his heart, holding her there, as he had never held her before.
Over the distant hills of Tennessee, a horse, feeding, softly neighed, as he lifted his head to the night breeze, and echo answered:
“Cliquot! Cliquot! my beautiful!
Thou hast won for me!”
THE END.
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.