As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind went back. He did not see
the bearded wreck who lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene,
with the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burning gold, and
a handsome young giant beside her. They rode together on some upland
trail at sunset time, sharply framed against the bright sky.

There was a whisper below him: "Irene!"

And Pierre looked down to blankly staring eyes. He groaned, and
dropped to his knees.

"I have come for you," said the whisper, "because the time has come,
Irene. We have to ride out together. We have a long ways to go. Are
you ready?"

"Yes," said Pierre.

"Thank God! It's a wonderful night. The stars are asking us out.
Quick! Into your saddle. Now the spurs. So! We are alone and free,
with the winds around us, and all that we have been forgotten
behind us."

The eyes opened wide and stared up; without a stir in the great, gaunt
body, he was dead. Pierre reverently drew the eyes shut. There were no
tears in his eyes, but a feeling of hollowness about his heart. He
straightened and looked about him and found that the room was
quite dark.

So in the dimness Pierre fumbled, by force of habit, at his throat,
and found the cross which he wore by a silver chain about his throat.