“I want to see my father’s body,” said the child.
“Iona, he sleeps!”
“Wake him, then!” she cried. “Or, no. I will be quiet and let him sleep. I will sit by him till he wakes.”
Dylar looked distressed. “Dear child, no one ever wakes from that sleep, it is so full of peace and rest. His heart does not beat. His hands are as cool as dew.”
“Wake him!” she cried, beginning to sob; and, snatching her hand away, ran to beat on the door, and call “Father! Father!” with an awful pause of silence between one call and the other. “If he were warm he would speak. Give him wine! I can make his heart beat. Let me in! I will go to him!”
“Nothing can make the body warm when the soul has gone out of it,” said Dylar, following her to the door. “It is like a candle that is not lighted.”
“If I kiss him, he will light,” persisted the child. “He always does.”
“His light is in the court of the King,” said Dylar. “You must not, cannot call it back.”
The child stood silent a moment, a statue of rebellious grief, trying to understand the cold science of death, now for the first time presented to her. Then, with something more of self control, she asked:—
“Can I make the King give back his soul, in any way? no matter if it is not by being good. Could I by being wicked? I am not afraid.”