“No, no; lay me down, dear madman, and run for it. Our luck is out. I have got my quittance.”
He felt the arrow in her side, and the warmth of her blood upon his arm, and a wondering wrath came over him. Her body seemed to melt, to slip away, to surrender all the thrilling tenseness of its muscles.
“Lay me down, my desire—and go.”
He laid her down very gently, yet the twisting of the barb made her cry out.
“A curse on the pain.”
He knelt by her, but she tried to thrust him away.
“It is my death wound. Up, dear fool; go—I charge you.”
“Not I. Give me your knife.”
She threw out her arms and caught him about the neck.
“Go. You cannot save me. Go. I ask it, with the blood of my death wound on me. Oh, strong heart—once—the last!”