Oswald opened his eyes. His mind was somewhat astray,--everything about him seemed wavering vaguely; then, in the midst of the terrible, chaotic confusion of every sense that precedes dissolution he made a mighty effort to grasp and hold a thought that glided indistinctly through his half-darkened mind. "Georges," he gasped, "what day of the month is it?"
"The seventh of August."
"My birthday."--Suddenly his mind grew clear once more, and there came over him the incredible celerity of thought, the wonderful illumination of vision of the dying, who in a moment of time grasp the memory of an entire life. As the earth slipped away from him he was able to judge human weaknesses in the light of eternity.
"Georges!" he began.
"Yes, dear old fellow!" said Georges softly, in a choked voice.
"Tell my mother--and for God's sake do not forget--that for the happy twenty-six years that are past I thank her, and that I kiss her dear, dear hands in token of farewell!"
He was silent, he breathed with difficulty,--his lips moved again, and Georges put his ear down to them that he might understand him--"Georges,--if I have ever done you wrong,--you or any one else in my life--without knowing it,--then...."
"Ah Ossi, would to God that I could ever lay down my head as calmly and proudly as you can," whispered Georges, clasping him closer in his arms.
The dying man smiled--possessed by a great calm. He knew that what had been his secret was his own forever.
He tried to raise himself a little, rivetting his eyes upon the crucifix;--the gilt letters gleamed in the morning light. He lifted his hand by an effort, to make the sign of the cross,--Georges guided his hand. A bluish pallor appeared upon his features,--twice a tremor ran through his limbs, his hands fell clinched by his side--his lips moved for the last time. "Poor Ella!" he murmured scarcely audibly.