"Can no one get some water?" cried Mr. Harding, who supported him.
"Not in this church," whispered the Earl, "but at Lyndwood. Do you hear, Harding?"
He sank down on the white roses, the gloves, his mantle and his sword, his gorgeous clothes sweeping the dusty cobbles. He put his hand over his beautiful face as if he would hide its distortion.
"I always—believed," he murmured, "in the immortality of the soul. I don't need—the key."
And so it was over. Within a few feet of my lady lay my lord, dead, as suddenly, as recklessly, leaving behind him, as she had done, naught save mistakes and incompletion. It was over.
"Let us take him home," whispered Lord Sandys, and sheathed his sword.