It gasped, it fought, its little limbs struggled beneath her, it writhed until the cold hand fell away, and then, its baby mouth set free, it fell a-shrieking.
Its cries were not like those of a new-born thing, but fierce and shrill, and even held the sound of infant passion.

'Twas not a thing to let its life go easily, 'twas of those born to do battle.
Its lusty screaming pierced her ear perhaps--she drew a long, slow breath, and then another, and another still--the last one trembled and stopped short, and the last cinder fell dead from the fire.
* * * * * When the nurse came bustling and fretting back, the chamber was cold as the grave's self--there were only dead embers on the hearth, the new-born child's cries filled all the desolate air, and my lady was lying stone dead, her poor head resting on her offspring's feet, the while her open glazed eyes seemed to stare at it as if in asking Fate some awful question..