hand. I gave him more of the spirit, and it appeared to lend him a little strength.
His lips moved as if to speak and his eyes brightened.
I felt his hand move in mine as if he would lift it, and, guessing his wish, I lifted it to his heart so that the fingers could feel the little treasure of love that lay there. His fingers closed over it, and he smiled again. But his strength would not suffer him to hold his arm up, so I propped it up, that the hand might rest on the flower.
"Can you hear me, Zoiloff? Do you know me?"
His lips moved and his eyes seemed to assent.
"Can I carry any message for you?" and I laid my fingers on the dead flower to show my meaning, and then bent my ear down to his mouth.
He seemed to make a great effort to speak, and I caught a struggling of the breath, as I held my own in the eager strain to listen. But finding he could not speak I gave him a few drops more of the brandy, now convinced that he wished to say something.
"Have you any message, dear friend?" I asked again, as I bent down.
There came another pause of effort and then I caught a word.
"Christina's," and I felt the fingers near his heart close on the flower.
In an instant the full knowledge of his heroic sacrifice rushed upon me. He loved Christina; and in the nobleness of his self-denying love he had given his life that mine should be saved for her.
I grasped his other hand and held it, as I pressed my lips to his marble forehead.
Then I saw his lips move again.
