And St. John comes. They are singing the "Nunc Dimittis," which, saith Bacon, "is ever the sweetest canticle" in the Church, as he crosses the threshold of that room, and draws near that bed on which, but a few short nights ago, he had seen her, with his covetous lover's eyes, lying in all her round dimpled beauty. There comes no greeting blush _now_ into her cheeks--the cheeks, that the sound of his far-off footfall had been wont to redden. How can she, that is the affianced of great Death, blush for any _mortal_ lover? Her eyes lift themselves languidly to his face; and, even in the "valley of the shadow," dwell there comfortably; though in that countenance--never beautiful, and now made haggard by watching, with reddened eyelids and quivering muscles--a stranger would have seen small comeliness. "So I am going to die, they tell me!" she says, whisperingly--says it simply and mournfully. Gerard cannot answer; only he flings himself forward upon the bed, and devours her thin hand with miserable kisses. "Perhaps it is not true! Oh, I hope it is not, St. John!" she says, falling to weeping; in her feebleness and great dread of that goal to which all our highways and byways and field-paths lead: "Death, and great darkness after death!" Still no answer. "Cannot they do anything for me?" she asks piteously. He lifts his head; and in his eyes--the eyes that have not wept more than twice since he was a little white-frocked child--stand heavy burning tears. "Nothing, darling, I'm afraid," he answers, in a rough choked voice. "There is _no_ hope, then?" "Oh, poor little one! why do you torture me with such questions? I _dare_ not tell you a lie!" "You mean that I am _sure_ to die!" she says, faintly, with a slight shudder, while a look of utter hopeless fear comes into her wan face. He throws his arms about her in his great despair. "Why do you make me tell you such news _twice?_ Is not _once_ enough?" "It is _quite_ sure! Oh, I wish I was not so frightened!" His features contract in the agony of that moment; an overpowering temptation assails him, to tell her some pleasant falsehood about her state; but he resists it. "As far as anything human _can_ be sure, it is so," he says, turning away his head. "Are you sure there is no mistake?--is it _quite_ certain?" "Quite." "Then"--essaying to raise herself in the bed, and reaching out her slight, weary arms to him--"then kiss me, St. John!" Without a word he gathers her to his breast; fully understanding, in his riven heart, that this embrace, which she herself can ask for, must indeed be a final one; his lips cling to hers in the wild silence of a solemn last farewell. "I'm glad you are not angry with me now," she whispers, almost inaudibly; and then her arms slacken their clasp about his bronzed neck, and her head droops heavy and inert on his shoulder.