"You will know everything soon," she said. "Then you will see that we have all been to blame—that we all need to pardon and to receive pardon. Forgive now—for Wolff’s sake!" Something quivered in Frau von Arnim’s frozen face. The little woman by the tree was crying openly, and her husband turned away as though the light blinded him. "Nora," Frau von Arnim said. That was all. Nora took a stumbling step forward; the elder woman caught her and held her. They clung to each other in a moment’s agony of grief. Years of life would not have brought them together nor broken their stubborn pride. The hand of death had touched them, and pride and hatred vanished. The barriers had yielded and left free the road from heart to heart. "Forgive?" Nora whispered brokenly. Very gently she was drawn towards the closed door. "Let us go to him," Frau von Arnim said. It was her forgiveness, and they entered the room together, hand clasped in hand. For one instant Nora shrank back as she saw the white face on the pillow. Then she loosened herself from her companion’s clasp and went forward alone. They did not follow her. It was as though at this hour of crisis she had claimed her right above them all, as though without a word she yet demanded back from them what was her own; and they watched her in awed, unbroken silence. She took the white, feeble hand upon the coverlet, and kissed it. "Wolff!" she whispered. "Wolff!" No one before had been able to rouse him from that terrible, death-like slumber. His eyes opened, and he smiled peacefully at her. "My little wife!" he answered faintly. She crept nearer. She put her arm beneath his head so that he rested like a child against her breast. "I have come back," she said. "I have brought your papers and your honour. You are to be quite, quite happy. I will tell you everything——" "Not now," he interrupted gently; "not now. I have so little time." His voice was pitifully thin and broken. It was as though the great, powerful body had become inhabited by the soul of a child. She drew him closer to her with a movement of infinite tenderness. "Only one thing—I did not leave you because I did not love you—or because of—any one else. Wolff, you must understand that. I was mad—the thought of war and my own people made me forget all that you were to me. But now I know, and you must know too. You shall not think so badly, so wickedly of me." He shook his head. "I think nothing bad of you, Nora." "You know I love you?" "You have a good, warm heart," he answered faintly. "You are sorry for me—and I thank you. I am glad that I am going to set you free." "Wolff!" For the first time she understood. He did not believe her, and he was dying. The blow was almost annihilating in its force and cruelty. Hitherto she had defied Fate; it crushed her now beneath its inevitableness, and a cry of agonised revolt burst from her lips.