CHAPTER XX
THE END OF THE QUEST
He came to his wits, strangling, his throat burned by a stinging dose of brandy, and sat up, coughing, conscious that the pain in his shoulder and his side was growing yet more agonizing with each passing instant.
Blinded with it, he was yet aware that he was not alone. Realizing this he strove to force himself into clear sentience.
As though from a distance of many leagues a voice thrilled in his ears—a voice to whose sweet accents he had not listened for long years.
"… Terence! …" it whispered, "… Terence, beloved! …"
"'Tis not so," he muttered thickly. "'Tis … not so! …"
A hand, soft, cool, light as the leaf of a rose, was upon his forehead; there was a shiver of breath upon his cheek; and the whispered appeal: "Terence, Terence, my beloved!"
Through all the pain and nausea, through the deadening lethargy that seemed to be numbing him thoroughly, penetrated the knowledge that he had won—somehow—to the presence of his heart's mistress. With a magnificent effort, drunkenly, he straightened up in his chair, erected his head, opened his eyes, even found strength to bring himself abruptly, with a mechanical movement, to his feet.
"Princesse!" he said clearly. "I am come … to die for ye … as I promised …"
The filmy mists of weakness that had lain, tremulously, before his eyes, seemed to tremble and fall apart—as the
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