When she opened them his face had disappeared; the humid waves above the
house-tops put out even the light of the stars, and night was come.

Fearfully, she approached her ear to his lips; he still breathed. She
made a motion to kiss him, then threw herself back in a quiver of
agony--they were not the lips she had known, and she would have nothing
less.

His breathing was so faint that in her half-reclining position she could
not hear it, could not be aware of the moment of his death. She extended
her arm resolutely and laid her hand on his heart. Not only must she
feel his going, but, so strong had been the comradeship between them, it
was a matter of loving honor to stand by him to the last.

She sat there in the hot heavy night, pressing her hand hard against the
ebbing heart of the unseen, and awaited Death. Suddenly an odd fancy
possessed her. Where was Death? Why was he tarrying? Who was detaining
him? From what quarter would he come? He was taking his leisure, drawing
near with footsteps as measured as those of men keeping time to a
funeral march. By a wayward deflection she thought of the slow music
that was always turned on in the theatre when the heroine was about to
appear, or something eventful to happen. She had always thought that
sort of thing ridiculous and inartistic. So had He.

She drew her brows together angrily, wondering at her levity, and
pressed her relaxed palm against the heart it kept guard over. For a
moment the sweat stood on her face; then the pent-up breath burst from
her lungs. He still lived.

Once more the fancy wantoned above the stunned heart. Death--_where_ was