The man was kneeling by the bed, his face buried in the white coverlet, his dark hair streaked with silver, and his great, strong arms stretched out as though to guard her even in her dreams. Of dull stained gold, was his rough shirt of mail, torn, ragged, bloody; then he lifted his head and she saw the grave majesty of his face. Again her hand went out groping until her uncertain fingers touched him—and he was real!
"The everlasting life," she whispered.
And he answered: "It is everlasting Love." And then the passion leapt into his eyes. "Love me," he cried. "Love me! Love me, Margaret!"
She thrust the palm of her hand against his mouth.
"Afterwards—but this is the Earth, and so I've got to die. Oh save me, Brand," she cried. "I can't die, now! I can't die! How can I die now! And yet—must I not lead my people on the Other Side, ride with my Guard yonder?" Her head fell wearily, and her eyes closed. "It is all well—you were true to me."
He clutched her hand and kissed it passionately. "Margaret! Margaret! You shall not die!"
"The Palace rocks," she muttered, "like a ship. It was only a little wound, but my neck throbs, and with the daybreak—will it hurt much, Brand, will it be worse than a wound, this death?"
"Margaret, you live, England is saved! Don't you hear, Margaret, can't you understand, I have destroyed the Russian Fleet, I have swept away the armies, delivered London, crushed the League! Oh, love me a little, Margaret, just a little. I have waited so long, and fought so hard for love."
"Give me some wine—I can't understand all at once. Give me a little wine."
He brought a glass of wine, and she, sitting up in bed, made him share with her. The level sun rays shining on her face welcomed a delicate flush of her returning strength, and made her hair an aureole of glory. Then, looking full into the light—