I touched
her on the arm. His words came finally in monotonous cadences.
"I am dy-ing," he said. "You will--pray?"
I saw her catch her breath. My own hung in my throat and choked me. He
was watching her intently now with overweighted gray eyes, that could
not make one entirely forget the long cunning line of the mouth. What
courage did she have to withstand this? He was dying--of that there
could be little doubt. She had grown white to the roots of her hair.
"I do not pray," she said steadily.
His eyebrows met. "You--_do not pray_? Who--taught--you--_not to
p--ray_?"
"You did," she said quietly.
He lay back with a sigh.
"Outrageous!" murmured Miss Etta through her tears. "An awful
girl--_awful_!"
The man on the bed smiled. He lifted his hand and let it fall back on
the cover.
"It's all right--all right--all--right." The reddish-brown eyelids
closed slowly.
Involuntarily a wave of pity shook me. It was consummate acting. That a
man should play a part upon the very edge of life held in it something
awesome, compelling attention. I drew myself together, feeling his eyes,
sharp for all their floating sadness, upon me. Was he--? Was I--?--A
crackling of thunder shook the ground. When it had passed, the rain came
down straight and hard and windless like rapier thrusts.
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