"No, not to forgive him, Hannah--for he has never willingly injured me,
poor boy; but to lay my hand upon his head, and look into his eyes, and
assure him with my dying breath that I know he was not to blame; for I
do know it, Hannah."
"Oh, Nora, what faith!" cried the sister.
The dying girl, who, to use her own words, was floating away again,
scarcely heard this exclamation, for she murmured on in a lower tone,
like the receding voice of the wind: "For if I do not have a chance of saying this to him, Hannah--if he is
left to suppose I went down to the grave believing him to be
treacherous--it will utterly break his heart, Hannah; for I know him,
poor fellow---he is as sensitive as--as--any--." She was gone again
out of reach.
Hannah watched the change that slowly grew over her beautiful face: saw
the grayness of death creep over it--saw its muscles stiffen into
stone--saw the lovely eyeballs roll upward out of sight--and the sweet
lips drawn away from the glistening teeth.
While she thus watched she heard a sound behind her. She turned in time
to see the door pushed open, and Herman Brudenell--pale, wild, haggard,
with matted hair, and blood-shot eyes, and shuddering frame--totter into
the room.