And here all ended. The guilty and the innocent vanished alike from the
scene, and we at least, in our remote home on the Rhenish border, heard of
them no more.
Monsieur Maurice never knew that I had been in any way instrumental in
bringing his case before the King. He took his freedom as the fulfillment
of a right, and dreamed not that his little Gretchen had pleaded for him.
But that he should know it, mattered not at all. He had his liberty, and
was not that enough?
Enough for me, for I loved him. Ay, child as I was, I loved him; loved him
deeply and passionately--to my cost--to my loss--to my sorrow. An old, old
wound; but I shall carry the scar to my grave!
And the brown man?
Hush! a strange feeling of awe and wonder creeps upon me to this day, when
I remember those bright eyes glowing through the dusk, and the swift hand
that seized the poisoned draught and dashed it on the ground. What of that
faithful Ali, who went forward to meet the danger alone, and was snatched
away to die horribly in the jungle? I can but repeat his master's words. I
can but ask myself "Does such fidelity indeed survive the grave? Who knows?
Who can tell?"
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Monsieur Maurice, by Amelia B.
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