Then at last Eleanora moved, and started, and stretched out her hands. “What do you want of me?” she said. “What is it that you want of me? Speak to me, Bridget O’Rourke. Speak to me.”
They were face to face again in their youth and beauty, but the contrast between them now brought no delight. They were face to face again; but let this heiress command as she might or beg as she might, never again would the rich voice speak to her with passionate pleading, or the grave eyes meet her own with a stronger prayer than words. This Queen of Death made no answer to her royal sister, except the awful answer of that silence which no power of earth can break.
“Rossetti of Errickdale!”
Once again from far above their heads they heard him calling—the man whose earthly all lay dead before them.
“We threatened to strike for food, and we feared ye. We suffered sore like slaves, for we feared ye. It’s ye that may fear us now, I tell ye, for to-night we strike for a life. Give us my good girl’s life again—my good girl’s life.”
He was wild with grief, and the people were wild with want and grief. Echoing up to the arches, their shout rang loud and long. “We strike for a life,” they cried. “Give us back that life, or we burn ye all together.”
Owner of princely wealth was he
upon whom they called. Seven hours ago that life was in his gift—one act of pity might have saved it, one doled-out pittance kept the heart from breaking. Let him lavish his millions upon her now; he cannot make her lift a finger or draw a breath.
“John O’Rourke!”
It was not the master’s voice that answered. For the first time John O’Rourke’s eyes turned from the master and looked upon Eleanora. The queen of a night held out her hands again to her who had gone to claim the crown of endless ages.