He felt the warm beating of the loving heart and opened his eyes.
“Are you there?” he said. “I can’t see; are you there?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Do you think I could leave you?”
“Never,” he replied. “My angel who believed in the angel in me. Nancy, I am the blackest scoundrel—on earth.”
“No, no,” she then said with a sob. “Don’t revile yourself now. To one person you have always been white.”
“As an angel, Nancy mine?”
“As an angel,” she replied. “You have been the one hero of my life—immaculate, strong, as you said yourself, my white knight.”
The dying man moved restlessly.
“Child,” he said, “you will hear things.” His voice grew lower and lower. “I have brought thee into the lowest scrape—into the depths. You will know hereafter what I have done for thee, Little Nancy.”
“I don’t wish to know; I will not listen. Whatever I hear, nothing will turn my love,” she replied.