He breathed
stertorously, and in his throat were the queer little gasping noises of
one overwrought.
"It is I, Gregory." She brushed her hand soothingly across his brow.
"Don't you understand? It is I, Frona. Do leave go."
His whole body slowly relaxed, and a peaceful expression grew upon his
face. His jaw dropped, and the man's arm was withdrawn.
"Now listen, Gregory. Though you are to die--"
"But I cannot! I cannot!" he groaned. "You said that I could trust to
you, that all would come well."
She thought of the chance which had been given, but said nothing.
"Oh, Frona! Frona!" He sobbed and buried his face in her lap.
"At least you can be a man. It is all that remains."
"Come on!" Tim Dugan commanded. "Sorry to bother ye, miss, but we've
got to fetch 'm along. Drag 'm out, you fellys! Catch 'm by the legs,
Blackey, and you, too, Johnson."
St. Vincent's body stiffened at the words, the rational gleam went out
of his eyes, and his fingers closed spasmodically on Frona's. She
looked entreaty at the men, and they hesitated.
"Give me a minute with him," she begged, "just a minute."
"He ain't worth it," Dugan sneered, after they had drawn apart. "Look
at 'm."
"It's a damned shame," corroborated Blackey, squinting sidewise at
Frona whispering in St. Vincent's ear, the while her hand wandered
caressingly through his hair.
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