"Yes, my little dove, yes."
"I was not fitted for my task," whispers she, sadly; "forgive!"
For one moment he remains speechless with emotion; then he presses his lips to her mouth, on her poor emaciated hands, on her hair.
"Forgive--I you! O my heart!" murmurs he. "How could you draw me up when I had broken your wings! But now all is well; we will seek our old happiness hand in hand. You shall become well, shall live!"
"Live," whispers she, quite reproachfully; "live," and shakes her head.
He looks at her with a long, tender glance, and is frightened.
Her face is still angel beautiful, but there is nothing left of her lovely form. It pains him to see the sharp, harsh lines which outline her limbs under the covering. That is no longer a living woman who stretches out her arms to him, it is only an angel who wishes to bless him. It is quite clear between them, and also the last shyness, which still held her back from him, has vanished.
"Yes, it is over," whispers she; "only a few more days--how many is that?--three days--five days--oh, perhaps it will last longer--physicians are so often mistaken. We will drive out once more together to see the spring--out there where the almond trees bloom between the ruins--by St. Steven, do you still know?--and until I feel it coming--the last, the end--then you will hold me by the hand, will you not? like a child that fears the dark, you will lead me quite tenderly up to the threshold of eternity--is it not true? No one can be so tender and loving as you. But do not be sad--not now; to-day I feel well, quite well. Ah!----"
What is that? She clutches at her heart--there it is again, the strange fluttering feeling in her heart. Her face changes, her breath fails.
"The doctor, Kolia!" calls Boris beside himself.