“My God!” he cried, huskily, “Stop her, stop her!”
Val Beverley, now desperately white, clutched at me with quivering fingers, her agonized glance set upon the smiling face of Madame de Stämer.
“No fuss, dear friends,” said Madame, gently, “no trouble, no nasty stomach-pumps; for it is useless. I shall just fall asleep in a few moments now, and when I wake Juan will be with me.”
Her face was radiant. It became lighted up magically. I knew in that grim hour what a beautiful woman Madame de Stämer must have been. She rested her hand upon Val Beverley’s head, and looked at me with her strange, still eyes.
“Be good to her, my friend,” she whispered. “She is English, but not cold like some. She, too, can love.”
She closed her eyes and dropped back upon her pillows for the last time.
