What is this with which he is suddenly stricken; what conviction is growing on his mind as his eyes grow yet wilder, and he grasps his throat with his trembling hand?
“My child, do not leave me. Have pity on me, tarry yet a little longer—leave me not in the world alone—oh I—and I am thy father—bid thee stay!”
She does not answer. He bends over her, as the dread conviction forces itself upon him.
“Dead! Dead! Dead!”
He wraps his hands round his head, looks wildly to the lowering sky, and cries:—
“The curse—the undying curse!”
Then he speaks no more.
Mercy for him as—his breath grows thick—mercy for him as he clasps his helpless hands together prayerfully. Mercy—mercy!
His faults are not all his own. He hath but mocked the world as it hath mocked him! Who would not hate where he is scorned? Oh—many are forgiven who have sinned more deeply.
See the clasped hands—the bloodless lips. Mercy—mercy!