Her work done, she turned to the entrance and watched the dawn
coming glorious over the river. The men shouted and quarreled in
the distance, but she heeded them no more than the chattering of
apes. Her heart was away over the distance to the King, but with
no passion now: so might a mother have thought of her son. He was
sleeping, forgetful of even her in his dreams. What matter? She
was glad at heart. The Queen was dearer to her than the King - so
strange is life; so healing is death. She remembered without
surprise that she had asked no forgiveness of the Queen for all
the cruel wrongs, for the deadly intent - had made no confession.
Again what matter? What is forgiveness when love is all?
She turned from the dawn-light to the light in the face of the
Queen. It was well. Led by such a hand, she could present herself
without fear before the Lords of Life and Death - she and the
child. She smiled. Life is good, but death, which is more life,
is better. The son of the King was safe, but her own son safer.
When the conqueror reentered the chamber, he found the dead Queen
guarding the dead child, and across her feet, as not worthy to
lie beside her, was the body of the Indian woman, most beautiful
in death.
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