He was filled with the wonder of that which he
was seeing.
"You see, old man," said Parkman, sharply, "what you've got ahead of
you?"
But he only murmured, happily, faintly, as one about to fall asleep: "She
loved me--like that."
It terrified her; it seemed, not as though the great idea were holding
him, but as though he were taking it away with him, even as though well
content to go, having this to take with him from life.
"Karl--Karl!" she sobbed--"don't you _see _how I love you?--don't you see
you _must _live now--for me?"
But he had far transcended all sense of suffering or loss, even her
suffering and loss. Her plea--she herself--could not reach him. He and
the great idea were going away together. And that light did not leave his
face.
It was so that he sank into a sleep. He did not hear Ernestine's sobs; he
knew nothing of her pleading cries. In a frenzy of grief she felt him
going out to where she could not reach him. She called to him, and he did
not answer. She pressed close to him, and he did not know that she was
there.
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