In an agony of grief he ran to the door of the hut, and beat at it, when he heard a voice—her voice—calling to him.
“She lives—she lives! oh! she lives!”
He was down at her side again, tearing her from the shameful sack with his trembling hands.
“My father! oh, my father!”
“’Tis thou, and they have stricken thee.”
“They have stabbed me—here—here.”
And wearily she pressed her hands about her heart, as the wretched man drew back, saying to himself, that he—he himself had killed her.
She was silent for a moment, still wearily pressing her breast.
“Speak—speak to me! oh, daughter!”
“I am almost too weak to speak, dear father. Lay thy hand upon my head, and bless me. If I may always think of thee, I will. Near my mother, I will pray for thee—near my mother.”