"Oh, God, God, God! Crailey!" "Yes," she answered.

"It's the poor vagabond that you loved so well." Together they ran through the hall to the library.

Crailey was lying on the long sofa, his eyes closed, his head like a piece of carven marble, the gay uniform, in which he had tricked himself out so gallantly, open at the throat, and his white linen stained with a few little splotches of red.
Beside him knelt Miss Betty, holding her lace handkerchief upon his breast; she was as white as he, and as motionless; so that, as she knelt there, immovable beside him, her arm like alabaster across his breast, they might have been a sculptor's group.

The handkerchief was stained a little, like the linen, and like it, too, stained but a little.

Nearby, on the floor, stood a flask of brandy and a pitcher of water.
"You!" Miss Betty's face showed no change, nor even a faint surprise, as her eyes fell upon Tom Vanrevel, but her lips soundlessly framed the word.