The necessity for speech tortured him. But her one coherent longing was for the sound of his voice.
"Don't let me die, please—not yet. I won't make you angry any more, I promise. And—it frightens me so. Keep tight hold of me; don't let me slip—away."
Desmond had a sensation as if a hand had gripped his throat, choking him, so that he could neither speak nor breathe. But with a supreme effort he mastered it; and leaning closer to her, spoke slowly, steadily, that she might lose no word of the small comfort he had power to give.
"I am holding you, my darling; and I will hold you to the very end. Only try—try to be brave, and remember that—whatever happens, you are safe—in God's hands."
A pitiful sob broke from her.
"But I don't understand about God! I only want—you. I want your hands—always. Where is the other one? Put it—underneath me—and hold me—ever so close."
He obeyed her, in silence, to the letter. She winced a little at the movement; then her head nestled into its resting-place on the wounded shoulder, with a sigh that had in it no shadow of pain; and bending down he kissed her, long and fervently.
"Theo—darling," she breathed ecstatically, when her lips were free for speech, "now I know it isn't true—what you said about not—caring any more. And I am—ever so happy. God can't let me—die—now."
And on the word, a rush of blood from the damaged lung brought on the inevitable choking cough, that shattered the last remnant of her strength. Her fingers closed convulsively upon his; and at the utmost height of happiness—as it were, on the crest of a wave—her spirit slipped from its moorings;—and he was alone.