Presently she whispered, "I would speak to the King." They all withdrew from the bed to the far end of the room and the antechamber. Mary put out a trembling hand and touched the bent dark head that rested on her quilt. "Ah, love!" she said. He raised his face, moving for the first time since she had fallen asleep, two hours ago. "They have told me," whispered Mary, "that I must say farewell—I always knew—forgive me that I had not the courage to tell you." She smiled. "I am so tired, and I have so much to say." With her right hand she drew a small gold key from the bosom of her gown and gave it him. "The little escritoire," she explained. "I asked him to give it you—only a few trifles—but you will understand." He took it with a shudder, her left hand he held between his tightly; he did not speak; his face was as white, as hallowed, as shadowed by death, it seemed, as hers. "I have not done much," she said; "but I have had such a little time, and it was difficult—indeed difficult. God will know I did my poor best. And I never failed in love, and I tried to do His will, but I have done nothing, and I meant to do so much——" The King forced his voice. "You have been a creature we were none of us fit to touch," he muttered. "You—you—oh, Marie!" He hid his face upon her hand, and she felt his hot tears on her fingers. "Do not grieve," she whispered. "There is still so much for you to do——" "No more," he answered passionately; "that is over now—I shall never do anything again—never——" Mary half raised herself on the pillows; a feverish colour came into her cheeks. "You are rebelling against God," she said, between agitated breaths. "You must go on—your work is not finished; but the prospects are so splendid——" "What is that to me?" he answered, in bitter despair. "I am a poor weak creature—I can do nothing—it was always you, your hope, your faith—I am no better than a thing of nought; in taking you God mocks me——" "No—no," cried Mary, with a desperate strength. "You are going on—you will conquer—do not make it hard for me to die——" She sank on to her pillows, coughing a little. "I have prayed God not to let you despair—I have asked Him to comfort you——" "There is no more comfort for me," he answered. "I want you—nothing but you on earth or in heaven——" Mary turned her face towards him; the dark auburn hair, beneath the fine veiling of lace, hung over the edge of the tumbled pillow and touched his hand. "Oh, my husband," she said faintly; "I have loved you with a passion that cannot end with death. You cannot—ever be alone again—I shall be there——" Her voice sank and died; she made an effort to lean towards him. He caught her to his bosom and kissed her cold forehead with lips as cold. "Go on," she stammered, "do not give up—the goal is nearly won——" She became slack in his arms; he laid her back on the pillow, and rose. She was smiling up at him, but there was an awful change in her face.