"Dear Heart, you must—there is no other way. When you are gone—I—I——"
He looked her full in the face for a moment before she understood. "No!" she cried in anguish; "you shall not!"
"It is best," he said. "I am hurt—even past your healing—it is better than—the torture—and—and—if you are followed, you must do the same. Promise me you will!"
"I promise," she answered, but she hardly knew her own voice.
"They were—in the north," he went on. "To the southward—all is clear. If it were not for me—you would go."
He fumbled around in the sand until he found the pistol and loaded it once more, though his hands shook. Beatrice tried to take it from him, but very gently he put her away.
"It is time," he breathed. "Taps have sounded for me. I said I would not—not speak of it again—but you—you will grant me pardon—I love you—so much that death will make—no difference—I love you—with all—my soul!" With a trembling hand he put the muzzle against his right temple, and looked up into her face with the ghost of a smile. His eyes asked mutely for something more.
Then Beatrice bent over him, and the kiss for which he had vainly pleaded was laid full upon his lips. He caught his breath quickly, with a gasp of pain. "God is very good to me," he said unsteadily. "It was in my dream—but I did not dare—and now—Heart's Desire—good-bye!"
He closed his eyes. There was a sharp crack, a puff of smoke, and the boy was dead; but the supreme exaltation of a man's soul was frozen in his face.