Then for a short space she was silent, and when she spoke again it was very low, so that none save Nell and I could hear. But the words made us tingle as we caught them.
'Gilbert,' she was saying in a whisper, clear and distinct, 'is it not sweet to walk thus hand in hand on the green meadows? Are not the spring flowers sweet, lad of my love? Shall I sing thee a song about them? For, though thou know'st it not, I can sing both high and low.'
Then she spoke as it had been liltingly and gladsomely.
'Gilbert, let me set this spray of the bonny birk above thine heart. Methinks it hath a strange look. I kenned not that it grew in this countryside.'
She broke into a weird lilt of song that sent the tears hasting to our eyes. But Marjorie was smiling as she never smiled on me, and that made me weep the more.
'It neither grew in syke nor ditch
Nor yet in any sheuch,
But at the gates o' Paradise,
That birk grew fair eneuch.'
'Gilbert, Gilbert,' she said lovingly, crooning like one that is caressed, 'is not this right winsome? That we are walking here together on the living green—with all our fashes, all our troubles left quite behind us. There was surely something long ago that wearied us, something that parted us and twained us. I cannot mind what it was. I shall not try to remember. But, love of mine, it shall separate us no more for ever and ever!'
Her voice had almost gone. But once again it came louder.
'Keep my hand, Gilbert,' she said, trembling a little, 'there is a mist coming up over the green betwixt me and the sunshine—a cold, cold mist from the sea. But keep thou my hand, dear love, clasp it tighter, and it will pass over.'
I saw the death sweat break on her brow.