"He is dead!" Michael could hardly utter the words. Noémi sunk on his breast. Her tears were no longer to be controlled; she sobbed violently.
He put his arm round her and let her weep on. It would have been sacrilege not to let these tears have free course.
He had no tears—no. He was all wonder; he was amazed at the greatness of soul which raised the poor despised creature so far above himself. That she should have been able to conceal her sorrow so long out of tender consideration for him whom she loved! How great that love must be! When the paroxysm was over she looked smiling at Timar, like the sun through the rainbow.
"And you could keep this from me?"
"I feared for your life."
"You dared not weep lest I should see traces of tears."
"I waited for the time when I might weep."
"When you were not with me, you nursed the sick child, and I was angry with you."
"You were never unkind, Michael."
"When you took my kiss to him you knew it was a farewell; when I reproached you with your vanity you were sewing his shroud; when you showed me a cheerful face your heart was pierced with the seven wounds of the Blessed Virgin! Oh, Noémi, I worship you!"