The dying man lay silent, gathering his strength.

He was breathing now with great difficulty.
"My son! I cannot see you--" Brown came and took Kalman's place.
"Here I am, father," said Kalman, kneeling beside him and holding his two hands.
"Bid--my daughter Irma--farewell! She will be safe with you." Then after a pause he whispered, "In my pocket." Kalman understood, found a packet, and from it drew the miniature of his mother.
"I give you this," said the father, lifting it with difficulty to his lips.

"No curse with it now--only blessing--farewell--you have brought me joy--let me see her face--ah, dear heart--" he said, fastening his glazing eyes upon the beautiful face, "I come to you--ah! freedom!--sweet freedom at last!--and love--all love! My son--farewell!--my love!" "Dear God!" cried Kalman, "Jesu, have pity and save!" A smile as of an infant falling asleep played over the rugged face, while the poor lips whispered, "At last--freedom!--and--love!" He breathed once, deep and long, and then no more.

The long, long fight was done, the fight for freedom and for love..