"This for the thirty lashes at Middenmass!" he shouted; "and this——"
But here Constans's rapier passed through his throat, and he fell back, gurgling horribly and tearing at his windpipe.
It had all happened so quickly that the two living men could only stare alternately at each other and at the burden that lay in Quinton Edge's arms. A slim, white figure, with that red stain upon her breast—spreading, spreading.
Constans gathered himself with a mighty effort. "Let me help you," he said, and between them they carried her over to the couch and laid her down. On a near-by table stood a ewer of water; Constans fetched it and began moistening the bloodless lips. They parted with a little sigh, and then the eyes of his sister Issa opened upon him. "Little brother," she whispered, and smiled.
Constans looked over at Quinton Edge, but he shook his head and stood back among the shadows.
"Little brother," said Issa again, and put out a wavering hand.
XXIX
DEATH AND LIFE
It had been very quiet in the room for a long time. Constans had tried to make the dying woman more comfortable, but every attempt to move her had only resulted in the wound breaking out afresh. It was cruelty to persist, and so he gave it over, waiting for what must come.
Now it seemed that Issa slept, for her eyes were closed and the lines of pain had wholly disappeared from the smooth, white brow. Quinton Edge kept his place at the back, where he could see and not be seen; a statue could not have been more immobile. Constans, kneeling by the couch, still held his sister's hand in his, keeping watch upon the pulse that fluttered so delicately. Once or twice the heavy eyes had opened and she had smiled up at him—contentedly as a child resting after the long day's play.