The mother opened the door; a tall figure slipped gently in; the door
was closed softly after it again, and Judith was alone; for Crittenden
still lay with his eyes closed, and the girl's face whitened with pity
and flamed slowly as she slowly slipped forward and stood looking down
at him. As she knelt down beside him, something that she held in her
hand clanked softly against the bed and Crittenden opened his eyes.
"Mother!"
There was no answer. Judith had buried her face in her hands. A sob
reached his ears and he turned quickly.
"Judith," he said; "Judith," he repeated, with a quick breath. "Why, my
God, you! Why--you--you've come to see me! you, after all--you!"
He raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's
sword, caught tightly in her white hands--the old sword that was between
him and Basil to win and wear--and he knew the meaning of it all, and
he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears.
"Judith!"
His voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about
her head and buried his face in her hair.