From the tattered leather pocket-book she pulled out a dried withered flower. His eyes gleamed as he saw it. He turned his face to her.
"Your rose," he whispered—"at Lucerne, you know."
A severe fit of shivering seized him. His eyes closed. From the corners of his mouth two thin rivulets of blood began to trickle ... he opened his eyes.
"Helene," he muttered spasmodically, "Helene—the frontier ... I must get across the frontier ... before the morning."
The end was near and she knew it. With her left hand she extracted from her bosom a little gold crucifix and held it before the dying eyes. In a voice, choked with emotion, she said in his ear,
"Say after me, my Gordon ... 'Jesu, have mercy!'"
"Jesu—have—mercy!"
"Now, and in the hour of death"—
"Now, and—in—the hour of—death"—
"Have mercy on me, a sinner!"