Suddenly he gave a start of superstitious terror and awe.
Across the grassy lawn a white form was gliding toward him so close that he could see the floating lengths of shining, golden hair, the pale, lovely face, the gleaming eyes, the thin, white gown, and the tiny, bare feet so pearly-white and fair.
“It is Violet!” he moaned. “My darling is dead, and her wraith has flown to her lonely lover to breathe a last farewell!”
She flew past him, as with a rush of wings, and hovered over the river, shrieking, wildly:
“The bride of death!”
CHAPTER VI.
“I HAVE NEVER BEEN FALSE TO YOU, EVEN IN THE MOST SECRET THOUGHT.”
It was the most thrilling moment of Cecil Grant’s life.
In one anguished instant he comprehended that it was no spirit he gazed upon, but Violet Mead herself, crazed by her illness, escaped from her watchers and about to end her sorrows in the deep and rushing river.
With a lightning bound, he flew to the rescue, a cry of terror on his blanched lips, his arms outstretched toward the flying figure, already making the fatal spring, hovering in mid-air, her white garments and golden curls fluttering in the chilly breeze that swayed the willows on the bank.
The silvery moon never shone on a face more deadly pale and anguished than Cecil Grant’s as he realized that a plunge in the cold waters of the river would be fatal to the life of the feverish girl. Already she was at the point of death, and the shock of the immersion would surely extinguish the last feeble flickering spark of her young life.