It was the inevitable; let her die as the fire sank to ashes, as the ashes dropped dismally into the hearth; it was the inevitable.
Still the little cat played lightly to and fro, leaped over the hand dropped by his side and pulled at the lace on his sleeve.
The mother-of-pearl whale glittered with many colors, the candle-light circled the milk-white glass like bright wine, the immortal warrior gazed up under his agate helmet, and the siren’s eyes gave forth red sparks of light.
In a little while she would be as they; as silent as cold in death as they; as utterly beyond all speech, all question or demand, inscrutable. He looked at the clear-cut features, the sweep of the lashes, the parted lips, the locked hands and the long still figure.
She had said she loved him.
She held him guilty of things he had not done; of her friend’s betrayal, which was his father’s work; of Jerome Caryl’s mysterious death, perhaps if she had known—But none of it mattered; the tragedy was played to its close and death would draw the curtain over all explanations.
She had loved him.
He knew of no other who had; in his whole life no other.
Let her go—unquestioned.
In apathy of soul, he gazed on her and as he gazed she opened her dark eyes.