“Where the sickle blades have been, Nannette, gathering ears of corn, Passes bending down, my queen, To the earth where they were born.”

“The blind man!” she cried. And Emma began to laugh, an atrocious, frantic, despairing laugh, thinking she saw the hideous face of the poor wretch that stood out against the eternal night like a menace.

“The wind is strong this summer day,

Her petticoat has flown away.”

“The wind is strong this summer day, Her petticoat has flown away.”

She fell back upon the mattress in a convulsion. They all drew near. She was dead.