There was no fear
in the wounded man's face. His eyes were clear. His voice was a
little stronger.
"I will die, M'sieur," he said, calmly.
"I am afraid so, Pierre."
Pierre's damp fingers closed about his own. His eyes shone softly,
and he smiled.
"It is best," he said, "and I am glad. I feel quite well. I will
live for some time?"
"Perhaps for a few hours, Pierre."
"God is good to me," breathed Pierre, devoutly. "I thank Him. Are
we alone?"
"Do you wish to be alone?"
"Yes."
Philip motioned to MacDougall, who went into the little office
room.
"I will die," whispered Pierre, softly, as though he were
achieving a triumph. "And everything would die with me, M'sieur,
if I did not know that you love Jeanne, and that you will care for
her when I am gone. M'sieur, I have told you that I love her. I
have worshiped her, next to my God. I die happy, knowing that I am
dying for her. If I had lived I would have suffered, for I love
alone. She does not dream that my love is different from hers, for
I have never told her. It would have given her pain. And you will
never let her know. As Our Dear Lady is my witness, M'sieur, she
has loved but one man, and that man is you.
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