I ran toward this garden, with its pathway to the lake, and thought every moment I should see before me Francezka’s flying figure. She was ever fleet of foot, and when I remembered this, the heart within me died.
When I reached the statue of Petrarch under which the poor dog lay buried, I stopped and searched the scene with a glance sharpened by agony. The lake lay before me; I heard its voice in the night—that strange voice to which I had often listened with Francezka. And then from the lonely cedars on the bank, I saw Francezka emerge, and, at the same moment, there 466 was a sound of swift pursuing feet—Regnard, too, had known where to seek her.
Francezka paused one moment on the brink of the lake, and turned her head toward those steadily nearing footsteps. Then she raised her face, raised both arms above her head and clasped them, as if in one last appeal to that Eternal Power, on the bosom of whose mercy she was about to cast herself, not wholly despairing. There was a sound of parting waters—of the black and icy waters—oh, Francezka! Francezka! How sweet must Death have been to thee!
THE END
Transcriber’s Note:
Author’s archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is preserved.
Author’s punctuation style is preserved.
Any missing page numbers in this HTML version refer to blank or un-numbered pages in the original.
Illustrations have been kept close to their original positions.