Still the little cat played lightly to and fro, leaped over the hand dropped by his side and pulled at the lace on his sleeve. The mother-of-pearl whale glittered with many colors, the candle-light circled the milk-white glass like bright wine, the immortal warrior gazed up under his agate helmet, and the siren’s eyes gave forth red sparks of light. In a little while she would be as they; as silent as cold in death as they; as utterly beyond all speech, all question or demand, inscrutable. He looked at the clear-cut features, the sweep of the lashes, the parted lips, the locked hands and the long still figure. She had said she loved him. She held him guilty of things he had not done; of her friend’s betrayal, which was his father’s work; of Jerome Caryl’s mysterious death, perhaps if she had known—But none of it mattered; the tragedy was played to its close and death would draw the curtain over all explanations. She had loved him. He knew of no other who had; in his whole life no other. Let her go—unquestioned. In apathy of soul, he gazed on her and as he gazed she opened her dark eyes. Opened wide her eyes and sat up, leaning on her elbow. “Lord Stair.” He could not tell if she could see him, her glance was dim and vague as if she addressed some fancied image of him. “The blood of Glencoe,” she said slowly. “They shall never speak of you without they curse you—for Glencoe—” She stared at the candle-light, leaning forward. “Have I damned myself, my love—to fix this stain on you?—I feel the flames—and I have lied—you also, Lord Stair—you lied to me.” A look of horror settled on her face. “Don’t go—stay with me—don’t you see them—the flames? so they rose in Glencoe—you are paid—” Her voice sank to a whisper; the last log on the hearth fell into ashes. “Kiss me—why have you never kissed me?—you asked me when they were singing—‘for the ways of the Lord are wonderful—’ Kiss me—” His pipe fell from his inert hand and broke into fragments on the floor. “Lord Stair.” He did not move from his seat. She had fallen back on her pillow; one hand trailed along the floor. “You asked me—Andrew—” He remembered when he had asked her; the Abbey, her words and his. “When you ask me—” And now—A great silence settled on the room; shadows advancing, receding, and her breath stilled forever. The nymph’s ruby eyes flashed brilliantly; the crystal warrior smiled the same; she had gone, forever. Beyond question or explanation, inscrutable, silent. After a while he rose and went to look at her; she had died as if she had fallen asleep, he lifted her cold hand from the floor and laid it on her breast. Then he went to the window and undid the shutters. The slipping back of the bolts made a dismal creaking; the hinges groaned; he opened the shutters and gazed through the glimmering window-pane. A wine-colored dawn was breaking over the housetops like a stain over the sky.