Was it a vision?
Was he dead?
She dragged herself to him upon her hands and knees and listened for his breathing, if perchance he still breathed and was not a wraith.

Then it came, strong and slow, the breath of a man in deep sleep.
So he lived.

Should she try to wake him?
What for?
To tell him she was a murderess and then to let him see her die?
For instinct told her that nature was exhausted; and she knew that she was certainly going--going fast.

No, a hundred times no! Only she put her hand into her breast, and drawing out the pass on the back of which she had written her last message to him, she thrust it between his listless fingers.

It should speak for her.