“Impossible, Marie, you cannot be so cruel as to desire this.”
“I have thought of this a great deal, have struggled with my own heart, and am now convinced that you must do so. You must have a wife at your side who loves you. Swear that you will seek such a wife. Swear this, and accord me a last joy on earth.”
She raised her hand once more, and her dying gaze was fastened on him imploringly. He could not resist it; he clasped the pale fingers in his quivering, burning hands, and swore that he would do as she bade him.
A faint smile flitted over her countenance, and her eyes sought out the faithful old woman, who had loved her like a mother, and who found it no longer necessary to conceal her tears, as she had been doing for many months, in holy and heroic deception.
“Trude,” whispered Marie, “you have heard his vow, and you must remind him of it, and see that he keeps it, and marries within the year. Kiss me, Trude, and swear that you will do so!”
Old Trude had no other words than her tears, no other vow than the kiss which her trembling lips pressed on her darling’s brow, already covered with that cold, ominous perspiration which gathers, like the morning dew of another world, on the countenances of those who stand on the threshold of the grave, and is symbolical of the new life to which they will awaken on high.
“Philip, my beloved, you too must kiss me!” whispered Marie, in eager tones. “Kiss me! Hold me fast! Drive death, grim, fearful death, away!”
He kissed her, entwined his arms around her, and pressed her to his bosom. Trude stretched out her arms imploringly into empty space, as if to ward off “grim death!”
But he is king of kings, and claims as his own all who live on earth!