And with a great wonder, but most gentle earnestness, she promises.
Another hour.
She kneels there still. He has fallen into a fitful doze, from which he starts from time to time, to be reassured only by the pressure of her hand—murmur from her lips.
Another hour.
The darkness of the night creeps on, slowly, wearily enough. The prayers her lips have framed are hushed now. He sleeps more calmly, more tranquilly, than he has done yet.
Another hour.
The Sister who relieves her comes softly in. She holds something in her hand, which she gives to Lauraine.
For a second's space, as her eyes rest on the little yellow paper, Lauraine grows faint with a great and unaccountable dread. Then she opens the envelope and reads the message within.
"They say there is no hope. If you can by any means leave Sir Francis, do come here. His one prayer is for a sight of you before he dies."
The paper flutters from her hand. She does not speak or move, only stands there as if frozen to stone.