I strained my arms round her.
"Speak to me, my darling, speak," I said wildly, raising the dying
head higher on my breast.
Both her hands were clasped hard upon her heart. A frightful agony
was reflected in the bloodless face, but for the moment death
retreated.
"Victor! To think I am dying! I shall never paint again! Oh, don't
let me go! Keep me! oh, keep me with you!"
My brain seemed bursting as I heard her. The only prayer of my life
broke then in a frenzy from my lips, "Great God! spare her!"
"Hold me up! oh, keep me, Victor! I am dying."
"Dearest, you are fainting!"
There was no answer. Heavier and heavier the pressure grew on my
breast, the arm slid heavily from my shoulders, the head fell slowly
backwards on my arm. I looked into her eyes. They were black as I
had seen them long ago in the studio. Fearfully, terribly dilated
they were, and in their depths was that look as if the soul were
listening to a far-off summons, calling, calling to it, to depart.
"My life! Speak to me once more! One word!"
Probably my voice did not reach her. For her already the silence
held but that one imperious command. My brief rule of this spirit
was over. It no longer heeded me. She no longer answered me. Her
eyes were still fixed upon me in helpless horror, terror, and
despair; but they knew me no longer.
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