To enter seemed like entering some sacred shrine where a pure saint
lay, and upon the threshold his Grace lingered, almost fearing to go
in and break upon the awful tenderness of this last hour, and the last
words he heard the loving creature murmuring, while the being she had
so worshipped knelt beside her.
"'Twas love," he heard, "'twas love. What matter if I gave my soul for
you?"
He drew back with a quick sad beat of the heart. Poor, tender
soul--poor woman who had loved and given no sign--and only in her dying
dared to speak.
And then there came a cry--and 'twas the voice of her he loved--and he
stood spellbound. 'Twas a cry of anguish--of fear--of horror and
dismay. 'Twas her voice as he had heard it ring out in the blackness of
her dream--her dear voice harsh with woe and broken into moaning--her
dear voice which he had heard murmuring love to him--crooning over her
children--laughing like music! And the torrent of words which she
poured forth made his blood cold, and yet as they fell upon his ear he
knew--yes, now he _knew_--revealed no new story to him, even though it
had been until that hour untold. No, 'twas not new, for through many an
hour when he had marked the shadow in her eyes he had vaguely guessed
some fatal burden lay upon her soul--and had striven to understand.
"And then I struck him with my whip," he heard, "knowing nothing, not
seeing, only striking like a goaded, dying thing.
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