“Oh—oh—oh!” gasped Mary, wringing her interlocked hands high above her head; and she sank slowly down upon the floor.
The measures fashioned by the hands of men can hold but so much; but anguish without limit may be pent up within a human heart that is bursting, yet will not burst.
The officer turned his eyes, and, even in his own great extremity, pitied her.
And, after all, which of the two was most to be pitied?
He was about to speak a few kind words, when he saw upon her pallid cheek the dark bruises made by his own heavy hand; and he held his peace. His lips were parched, his throat tortured with that cruel thirst that loss of blood entails. His wounded neighbor could not, she would not hand him a cup of water. At any rate, it were worthier to die there, where he lay, rather than ask a favor of the woman he had so insulted. Three times he tried to rise, and as often fell heavily back. She raised her head and saw the longing, wistful look in his eyes, fixed upon a bucket which stood in a corner of the room.
It is wonderful how sorrow softens the heart!
She rose in an instant and brought him the cup. He could not lift his head. Bending over him, she placed her arm beneath his neck and raised him. As he drank, the tears poured down his cheeks. Gently withdrawing her arm, she tripped softly across the room and brought her own pillow and placed it beneath his head; and sitting down upon the floor, by his side, stroked his brown forehead with her soft white hand. He raised his streaming eyes to hers, and again and again essayed to speak; but his quivering lips refused to obey.
“I know what you would say; so never mind. Don’t worry now. You may beg my pardon when you get well.”
He shook his head sadly. “I am dying now,—I feel it.”
His voice sank into a whisper. She bent over him to catch his words.