He tries to cry for help, but he cannot,--
can only stretch out his hands to her, and feel
very unhappy that he cannot follow her. But
now she pauses in her flight, turns about, and
he sees that she wears a myrtle garland in her
hair like a bride. She comes toward him, her
countenance all radiant with love and happiness,
and she stoops down over him and speaks:
"Come; they are waiting for us. I will follow
thee in life and in death, wherever thou
goest. Come," repeats Edith, "they have long
been waiting. They are all here."
And he imagines he knows who they all are,
although he has never heard of them, nor can
he recall their names.
"But--but," he stammers, "I--I--am a foreigner "
It appeared then that for some reason this
was an insurmountable objection. And Edith's
happiness dies out of her beautiful face, and she
turns away weeping.
"Edith, beloved!"
Then she is once more at his side.
"Thou art no more a foreigner to me, beloved.
Whatever thou art, I am."
And she presses her lips to his--it was the
sweetest kiss of his life--the kiss of death.
The next morning, as Edith, after having put
the last touch to her toilet, threw the shutters
open, a great glare of sun-smitten snow burst
upon her and for a moment blinded her eyes.
On the sidewalk opposite, half a dozen men
with snow-shovels in their hands and a couple
of policeman had congregated, and, judging by
their manner, were discussing some object of
interest.
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