“She had brought you here, and Rette says the women hung off from her and laughed in corners, whispering and talking, and that her face was worn and greatly changed, as if with some deep sorrow.”
McElroy turned his head upon the pillow and weak tears smarted under his lids.
“Me! It was I she saved when it was I who slew her lover! God forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself!”
“Nay, boy, hush! It is all as God wills. We are but shuttles in the web of this tangled life.”
“But—tell me,—what does she now? How looks her dear face?”
Ridgar was silent a moment, and McElroy repeated his question, with his face still turned away:
“Does she pass among them,—the vipers? Does she seem to care for life at all now?”
“Lad,” said Ridgar gently, “I know not, for she is gone.”
“Gone!”
The pale man on the pillow sprang upright, staring at the other with open mouth.