Alva stroked the dark tresses back from the damp brow, and they looked at each other, she and St. George, with wondering eyes that questioned:
“Can this story be true?”
The young man looked from the chamber of horror out at the quiet sunset skies, and it seemed to him incredible that such things could be.
But in the face of all that had gone before, and of this present tragedy, he was not prepared to deny anything. He could only say to Alva:
“It is a strange story.”
Everything began to grow dark in the room before Maybelle spoke again.
She looked wistfully at Beresford, sighing:
“I do not wish to die now, though all the best things of life have slipped away from me. But—but I seem to be sinking away.”
“Have you any last words—any wish?” he began.
“Yes, one wish.” She seemed to forget Alva’s presence, or not to care. “Will you—kiss me—just once?—I have loved you so!”