The writer looked up inquiringly.
"You look at me as if to ask what a woman, a widow, can effect in a task under which a man broke down. I will tell you. Six weeks after my death you are to marry again."
The pen fell from the woman's hand.
"That is my command!" continued the stony-hearted man sternly; "and I have chosen a husband for you in advance. You will give your hand to Benedict Rideghváry."
At this the wife could no longer contain herself. She left the writing-table, sank down upon her knees by the bedside, seized her husband's hand and wet it with her tears. The patient closed his eyes and sought counsel in the darkness. He found it.
"Marie," said he, "do not give way in that manner; it is now no time for tears. My orders must be obeyed. You are young yet,—not forty years old. You are beautiful and will not lose your beauty. Twenty-four years ago, when I married you, you were not a whit fairer than you are to-day. You had raven-black hair and bright eyes, and you have them yet. You were gentle and modest, and you have not lost those virtues. I have always loved you warmly, as you well know. In the first year of our married life my eldest son, Ödön, was born; in the next year my second son, Richard; and in the third my youngest, Jenő. Then God visited me with a severe illness, and I have ever since been an invalid. The doctors said I was doomed, and that a single kiss from your beautiful lips would kill me. And so I have been wasting away for the last twenty years at your side like a condemned criminal. Before your eyes the bloom of my life has withered away, and during all this time you have been merely a dying man's nurse. I have dragged out my existence from day to day, possessed by a great purpose which alone enabled me to retain the breath of life in my body amid the most grievous tortures. Oh, what a life it has been,—a life bereft of every pleasure! Yet I endured it, denying myself everything for which other men live. I lived simply for the sake of the future, a future which I wish to be, for our country, the perpetuation of the past. For that future I have reared my sons, for it I have spent my strength, and in it my name will live. On that name now rests the curse of the present, but it will be glorified by the radiance of the future. It is for that name, Marie, that I have suffered so much. But you must live to enjoy yet many years of happiness."
The wife sobbed in mute protest against his commands.
"It is my will," cried the man, and he snatched his hand from her grasp. "Go back to the table and write. 'This is my dying command: six weeks after my death my wife is to marry Benedict Rideghváry, who is the man most worthy to follow in my footsteps. Only thus shall I rest easily in my grave and enjoy peace in heaven.' Have you written that, Marie?"
The pen slipped from the writer's fingers; she buried her face in her hands and remained silent.
"The hour is fast going," stammered the dying man, struggling against the approaching dissolution; "but non omnis moriar. The work that I have begun will survive me. Marie, lay your hand on mine and leave it there until mine begins to stiffen. No foolish sentimentalism, no tears! I will not let you weep now. We shall not take leave of each other: my spirit will remain with you and never leave you. Every morning and evening it will demand of you an account how you have discharged the duties I have laid upon you in this my dying hour. I shall be near you constantly."