But she
was of too brave a mold to suffer any foe--even the foe that conquers
kings--to have power to appall her. She raised herself, and looked at
the soldiery around her, among them the men whose carbines had killed
her, whose anguish was like the heart-rending anguish of women.
"Mes Francais! That was a foolish word of mine. How many of my bravest
have fallen in death; and shall I be afraid of what they welcomed? Do
not grieve like that. You could not help it; you were doing your duty.
If the shots had not come to me, they would have gone to him; and he has
been unhappy so long, and borne wrong so patiently, he has earned the
right to live and enjoy. Now I--I have been happy all my days, like a
bird, like a kitten, like a foal, just from being young and taking no
thought. I should have had to suffer if I had lived. It is much best as
it is----"
Her voice failed her when she had spoken the heroic words; loss of blood
was fast draining all strength from her, and she quivered in a torture
she could not wholly conceal. He for whom she perished hung over her in
an agony greater far than hers. It seemed a hideous dream to him that
this child lay dying in his stead.
"Can nothing save her?" he cried aloud. "O God! that you had fired one
moment sooner!"
She heard; and looked up at him with a look in which all the passionate,
hopeless, imperishable love she had resisted and concealed so long spoke
with an intensity she never dreamed.
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