“Is that indeed so? Say—those words again.”
“Nothing in heaven above or hell beneath can change my unalterable love,” she repeated.
“Fold my hands, Nance—together—so. Father in Heaven—if a weak woman can be so forgiving, wilt not Thou—even Thou—have mercy?”
The last words were scarcely distinguishable. Nance kept the folded hands together. A smile came suddenly on the white lips, a longer and slower breath than any of the others, then stillness.
Half an hour afterwards Simpkins softly opened the door of the room and came on tiptoe to Nancy’s side. He saw at a glance that the chief was dead. Nance was kneeling by him, her face hidden against his breast.
“Come, madam; I am dreadfully sorry, but you dare not stay here another moment,” said the man in a tone of great pity and sympathy.
At the words she raised her head and gave him a bewildered glance. She rose to her feet, staggering slightly.
“I do not wish to leave here,” she said. “I want to remain by my husband’s body.”
“Hurry, Simpkins, hurry!” said Scrivener’s voice at that moment in the doorway.
“You must not stay, madam. It is as much as our lives are worth. I must tell you something.”