The last feeble sounds she uttered were addressed to him; and their burden was still of consolation and of love.
Soon the old man, as he stooped over her, saw her eyes close again--those innocent, gentle eyes which even yet preserved their old expression while the face grew wan and pale around them--and darkness and night sank down over his soul while he looked.

'She sleeps,' he murmured in a voice of awe, as he resumed his watching position by the side of the couch.

'They call death a sleep; but on her face there is no death!' The night grew on.

The women who were in attendance entered the room about midnight, wondering that their assistance had not yet been required.

They beheld the solemn, unruffled composure on the girl's wasted face; the rapt attention of Numerian, as he ever preserved the same attitude by her side; and went out again softly without uttering a word, even in a whisper.