The Hardys of Hardiwick had given their last gift to the cause.
Tears were streaming down Margaret's cheeks. With shaking hands she
removed her hat and, kneeling down at the bedside, clasped her hands in
prayer.
"She talked no end about you, sir," whispered the serving-woman, "and
about the beautiful lady with you. That standing in the cold square to see
the Prince was the death of her. She would have her bed put down here,
sir. She wanted to die here, with the old shield in her eyes, for she was
proud of her blood, as well she might be."
"Yes," I whispered back. "She was the last of a great race."
"Aye, sir. She was that. She was a bit moithered in her mind, dear heart,
just afore she went. The last words she said were a prayer for his soul,
--her sweetheart you know, sir, that she lost sixty years ago,--just as
I'd heard her pray thousands of times. But, poor thing, she got his name
wrong. She called him 'John.'"
Choking, I threw myself on my knees beside Margaret, and prayed and
fought, and fought and prayed again. Here, before me, I saw Death in the
only shape in which it can give no sorrow--sinless age that had gently
glided into immortality; and, with equal vision, I saw the black
passage .
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