He stopped again, and I saw a sudden change in his face. The doctor answered my questioning look with a grave nod, and just then the door was thrown open and Flora entered. She gave me a glance of startled surprise, and knelt on the opposite side. Shaking the snow from her furred cloak, she bent over the dying man; her eyes filled with tears of grief and pity, and her lips trembled.
“Griffith, tell me it is not true!” she cried; “Live for my sake!”
He looked from the girl to me.
“God bless you both!” he said weakly. “Do not grieve for me, Flora. I loved you, but it was more the love of a father for a daughter. Now I leave you a legacy of happiness—a husband who will cherish and protect you. Promise before I go that you will be Denzil’s wife. I shall die the happier if I know that my mistake—is—atoned—”
The effort was too much for him. He gasped for breath, and his face turned the color of ashes, blood oozed to his lips. I was speechless with emotion, and Flora was weeping too bitterly for words; but I saw her lips move, and she suddenly stretched out her hand. I clasped it for a brief moment, and as I released it and looked at Griffith Hawke, he shuddered from head to foot and lay still, with closed eyes.
“He is dead,” said Menzies.
“Yes, it is over,” assented the doctor.
A silence fell on us all, broken only by Flora’s sobbing. Overhead, the sentries spoke in low tones while they watched at their posts, and outside the wind howled a mournful requiem.
Through the remaining hours of that night the storm raged, heaping the snow in higher drifts, and keeping half a dozen men busily employed in clearing the entrances to the various outbuildings. That the Indians had taken shelter in the forest, and were not likely to attempt another assault, did little to lighten the general gloom and grief that pervaded the fort, for there was not a man but felt he had lost a friend in Griffith Hawke. As for myself, I had a heavy weight of responsibility upon me, and that prevented my mind from dwelling too much on other things. I gave a thought now and again to my new-born happiness, but the thrill of joy was as quickly stifled by bitter shame—by a vision of the dead man who had returned good for my meditated evil. Flora was in the care of Mrs. Menzies. Captain Rudstone had taken her back to the house, and I had no intention of seeking an interview with her until she should have partly recovered from the shock of the factor’s death.