Raoul made no answer, but appearing to suffer under the pain of his wound, the feelings of woman so far prevailed over Ghita’s tender nature that she had not the heart to press even his salvation on him at such a moment.  She offered him soothing drinks, and nursed him with unabated care; and when there seemed to be a cessation to his sufferings, she again passed minutes on her knees, her whole soul absorbed in his future welfare.  An hour passed in this manner, all on or near the rock sleeping, overcome by fatigue, but Ghita and the dying man.

“That star haunts me, Ghita!” Raoul at length muttered, “If it be really a world, some all-powerful hand must have created it.  Chance never made a world, more than chance made a ship.  Thought—­mind—­intelligence must have governed at the formation of one as well as of the other.”

For months Ghita had not known an instant as happy as that.  It appeared as if the mind of Raoul were about to extricate itself from the shallow philosophy so much in fashion, and which had hitherto deadened a nature so kind, an intellect ordinarily so clear.  Could his thoughts but once take the right direction, she had strong confidence in the distinctness of their views, but most of all in the goodness of the Deity.

“Raoul,” she whispered, “God is there, as he is with us, on this rock.  His spirit is everywhere.  Bless him!—­bless him in thy soul, my beloved, and be forever happy!”

Raoul answered not.  His face was upturned, and his eye still remained riveted on that particular star.  Ghita would not disturb him, but, taking his hand in hers, she once more knelt and resumed her prayers.  Minute passed after minute, and neither seemed disposed to speak.  At length Ghita became woman again, and bethought her of her patient’s bodily wants.  It was time to administer the liquids of the surgeon, and she advanced to hold them to his lips.  The eye was still fastened on the star, but the lips did not meet her with the customary smile of love.  They were compressed, as when the body was about to mingle in the strife of a battle, a sort of stern resolution being settled on them.  Raoul Yvard was dead.

The discovery of the truth was a fearful moment to Ghita.  Not a living being near her had the consciousness of her situation, all being bound in the sleep of the weary.  The first feeling was that which belonged to her sex.  She threw herself on the body, and embraced it wildly, giving way to those pent-up emotions which her lover, in his moody humors, was wont to accuse her of not possessing.  She kissed the forehead, the cheeks, the pallid, stern lips of the dead; and, for a time, there was the danger that her own spirit might pass away in the paroxysm of her grief.  But it was morally impossible for Ghita to remain long under the influence of despair.  Her gentle spirit had communed too long and too closely with her Heavenly Father, not to resort to his support in all the critical moments of life.  She prayed, for the tenth time that night, and arose from her knees calm, if not absolutely resigned.