"Madame," I said, "I have seen man like that picture, Face and form. He was brave as you say. He was tender. He was true unto death, and he loved you as heaven. And these are the words that he sent you in dying. I, a man of the woods, bring you this as last message, From one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids Of that northern river which pours its brown water To the Lake of St. John from far Mistassinni. 'Tell her, John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living, With a love that was true, and with same love in dying. Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner, For time now and time ever. That the one picture She gave me I kept;--living, dying, and after. That it lies on the breast of the man that you buried; On the breast of the man who living did love her, And that there it will lie until it shall crumble, With heart underneath it, to dust. So tell her. And in proof that I tell her the truth, and did tell it The night when we met, and I told her I loved her, Give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening We met, and the evening we parted. Let her open And see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her. So say and no more." Thus I spake. Word for word as he told me I spake. I gave her the watch, and I said no word further. I had done as I pledged, I had said as he charged me, So I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal. But she said not a word, nor made she a sign. The watch she took from me, touched the spring and it opened, And there, 'twixt the glass and the gold, withered and faded, Lay a leaf of Red Rose. One leaf, and--no more. For a moment she stood; stood, and gazed at the leaf, Her face grew as white as her gown, and she trembled And shook like a white swan in dying, then she cried, "My God, I have killed him, my lover!" And down on the floor, on the skins at her feet She dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning. It was only last month that we two, in trailing, Trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids. For we wanted to see before going northward If evil had come to the grave of our comrade. But the grave lay untouched, by beast or by human. The grass on the mound was well rooted and growthful. At the foot of the grave the rose-tree I planted Was as high as my head. And the leaves of the roses Lay as thick as red snow-flakes on the mound that was under. And we knew that on breast, as he slept, was her picture. So we felt, as we gazed, it was well with Jack Whitcomb.