And so she had died—his little, laughing Azalea, his beautiful child-wife, had died while he was away from her. He put out his hands blindly, as the inclination to faint overcame him. He hardly understood the words the woman spoke.
“Oh, master, master, master!”
But the woman’s voice recalled him. He stared at her mechanically. Mechanically he spoke.
“I understand,” he said. “She is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated the woman, and shook her head. “No, no, not dead; better that than what is, O master—sir!”
“Not dead!” His hands unclinched. His fears had lent phantoms to his imagination. “Alive! Why, then all was well.” His thought escaped his lips, and the woman answered:
“Better death than sin, O master.”
He could have laughed. What! Was this servant of his trying to frighten him with her old jealous tales of the insincerity of his wife’s conversion. The sins of Azalea were microscopic.
“Come, Natsu, let us go to her,” he said impatiently. “Why do you look at me in that way? Are you, too, seeking to hide her whereabouts from me?”
“No, master, but if I take you thither, you will curse me for my evil offices.”