“Beloved Muriel,” murmured Harrington, “I thank the kind fate that suffers me to see you again, and to die in your arms.”
“And I, my husband,” she replied, in a subdued and tender voice, “I am happier that it has been ordered so. You return to me, as I knew you would, living or dead, a victor.”
“Yes,” he replied, “we have triumphed. All is retrieved, and I can pass away in peace. I was alone; I lost my weapon, and they were seven to one; but I mastered them all with only one wound. Only one—here—but it is fatal.”
She quickly undid his neckerchief and collar, laid bare his massive breast, and gazed upon the stab. Then rising, she went over to Wentworth, who was bending over Emily, she having just recovered from her swoon.
“Richard,” said she, “I do not think there is any hope for John, but it is best to call in Dr. Winslow. Will you go for him?”
Wentworth at once left the room.
“Dear Emily, be calm,” said Muriel, gently. “I told you of this beforehand, that you might be saved the shock. Try to be calm. Try, for my sake, to meet this sorrow bravely.”
“Oh, Muriel,” replied Emily, with the tears flowing upon her blanched and agitated face, “is he hurt? Don’t tell me he is killed! Don’t tell me that! Where is he? Let me see him.”
“Come here, dear Emily,” said Harrington, faintly.