“Look—look!” she cried, wildly. “Her eyelids moved! See, her breast heaves! She is not dead! She revives!”
St. George turned back at his sister’s words and saw that they were true.
Maybelle was reviving.
Her dark eyes opened wide and rested imploringly on their faces.
“Do not leave me!” she faltered.
They hurried to her side, and Alva lifted the heavy head on her arm while Beresford poured a few drops of wine between her lips from a flask he had brought with other restoratives in a tiny case.
Maybelle moaned faintly:
“Poor Otho, he is quite dead, is he not? His courage did not fail—like mine—at the last.”
Beresford drew a shawl over the dead face reverently, hiding it from her sight, and she added:
“When the cold steel pierced my flesh it pained me so I could not drive it home to my heart. It fell from my hand and I fainted. But—but—I shall die all the same, shall I not?” anxiously.