“Yes.  It will pass away.  Do not grieve.  Kiss me, dear mother.”

He was gasping for breath, and his hand was tightly clasped about his mother’s withered palm.  She wiped the dampness from his brow, mingling her tears with the cold dews of death.

“Is Harold there?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“You will not forget?  And you will love and guard her well?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Put away the sword, Harold; it is accursed of God.  Is not that the moonlight that streams upon the bed?”

“Yes.  Does it disturb you, Arthur?”

“No.  Let it come in.  Let it all come in; it seems a flood of glory.”

His voice grew faint, till they could scarce hear its murmur.  His breathing was less painful, and the old smile began to wreathe about his lips, smoothing the lines of pain.

“Kiss me, dear mother!  You need not hold me.  I am well enough—­I am happy, mother.  I can sleep now.”

He slept no earthly slumber.  As the summer air that wafts a rose-leaf from its stem, gently his last sigh stole upon the stillness of the night.  Harold lifted the lifeless form from the mother’s arms, and when it drooped upon the pillow, he turned away, that the parent might close the lids of the dead son.

THE END.