He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead.

“Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!”⁠—That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards Heaven!

“Agnes?”

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance.