He had nothing but fever and chills, and a strength that
grew less each day."
"My God. Michael. Did he know about the letter, the one you thought I
wrote?"
"Yes, love. We'd been together through so much, and were now thrown
into such a desperate pass..... There could be no secrets between us.
But he loved you, as cousin and friend, and never held it against
you."
"Then he died thinking. . .that I was in love with those who did this
to you. Oh, it is horrible."
"Easy, lass. His pain is over." Again they embraced, taking that last
human comfort against young and tragic death. Then Michael began to
pace again, both to warm himself, and to finish what he must say. For
he, too, carried a burden of guilt and remorse.
"As I said, it is a wonder that he survived it. But some last
obsession drove him: whether hope or madness, I could never say. He
was determined to return to the home of his fathers, and perform some
last act of heroism." He paused. "There is something else I haven't
told you. Something very painful to me."
"What is it, Michael?"
He could not face her, as if she were some part of himself which he
had shamed.
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