A sickly smile came into his face, and seemed to accentuate its
pallor. He made a deprecatory gesture. Then, as if in that
gesture he had expended his last grain of strength, he swayed
suddenly as he stood. He made as if to reach a chair, but at
the second step he stumbled, and without further warning he
fell prone at her feet, his left hand upon his heart, his right
outstretched straight from the shoulder. The loss of blood he
had sustained, following upon the fatigue and sleeplessness
that had been his of late, had demanded its due from him, man
of iron though he was.

Upon the instant her anger vanished. A great fear that he was
dead descended upon her, and to heighten the horror of it came
the thought that he had received his death-wound through her
agency. With a moan of anguish she went down upon her knees
beside him. She raised his head and pillowed it in her lap,
calling to him by name, as though her voice alone must suffice
to bring him back to life and consciousness. Instinctively she
unfastened his doublet at the neck, and sought to draw it away
that she might see the nature of his hurt and staunch the wound
if possible, but her strength ebbed away from her, and she
abandoned her task, unable to do more than murmur his name.

"Crispin, Crispin, Crispin!"

She stooped and kissed the white, clammy forehead, then his
lips, and as she did so a tremor ran through her, and he opened
his eyes. A moment they looked dull and lifeless, then they
waxed questioning.