Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael. A Novel онлайн

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Dr. Follett’s voice dropped—the animation went out of it.

“There, child, all the pictures have faded,” he said. “The curtain has dropped—the old life is shut away by a door which can never be opened, for Anthony is dead. Let me weep for him, Nancy—I will; I must. Tears come slowly to the dying, but they rise in my eyes now when I remember Anthony. He is dead—he was murdered—he lies in his grave, but his murderer still sees the sunshine and feels the sweet breath of life—his murderer lives.”

“But you are not to blame for that,” said Nancy; “no man could do more than you have done. When you see Anthony again in the strange world to which you are hurrying you will tell him all, and——”

“I shall see him again,” said Dr. Follett, “and when I see him I will tell him that I have dropped my mantle on to you; you are to continue my work.”

Nancy’s face grew so white that it looked almost like the face of one who had died; her lips slightly parted, her eyes, terror growing in them, became fixed on her father’s face.