A slight pressure from the cold fingers was the only reply.
"You know that you are dying?" he pursued.
Again that faint sign of assent.
"Then, dear, let us be at peace before you go," he pleaded, gently. "My soul bows in humiliation and remorse before you; for years I have wronged you. I wronged you in those first days in Rome. I have no excuse to offer. I simply tell you that my spirit is crushed within me as I look back and realize all that I am accountable for. I would have been glad to atone, as far as was in my power, could you have lived to share my future. Give me some sign of forgiveness to tell me that you retract those last bitter words of hate—to let me feel that in this final moment we part in peace."
At his pleading a look of agony dawned in the woman's failing eyes—a look so pitiful in its yearning and despair that the strong man broke down and sobbed from sorrow and contrition; but the sign he had begged for was not given.
"Oh, Anna! pray show me, in some way, that you will not die hating me," he pleaded. "Forgive—oh, forgive!"
At those last words those almost palsied fingers closed convulsively over his; the look of agony in those dusky orbs was superseded by one of adoration and tenderness; a faint expression of something like peace crept into the tense lines about the drawn mouth, and the repentant watcher knew that she would not go out into the great unknown bearing in her heart a relentless hatred against him.
That effort was the last flicker of the expiring flame, for the white lids drooped over the dark eyes; the cold fingers relaxed their hold, and Gerald Goddard knew the end had almost come.
He touched the bell, and the physician instantly re-entered the room.
"It is almost over," he remarked, as he went to the bedside, and his practiced fingers sought her pulse.