With her right hand she drew a small gold key from the bosom of her gown and gave it him.
"The little escritoire," she explained. "I asked him to give it you—only a few trifles—but you will understand."
He took it with a shudder, her left hand he held between his tightly; he did not speak; his face was as white, as hallowed, as shadowed by death, it seemed, as hers.
"I have not done much," she said; "but I have had such a little time, and it was difficult—indeed difficult. God will know I did my poor best. And I never failed in love, and I tried to do His will, but I have done nothing, and I meant to do so much——"
The King forced his voice.
"You have been a creature we were none of us fit to touch," he muttered. "You—you—oh, Marie!"
He hid his face upon her hand, and she felt his hot tears on her fingers.
"Do not grieve," she whispered. "There is still so much for you to do——"
"No more," he answered passionately; "that is over now—I shall never do anything again—never——"
Mary half raised herself on the pillows; a feverish colour came into her cheeks.