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Updated: May 15, 2025
Comments ran freely from lip to lip, Sergius Thord had been seen, pale as death, laying flowers on the deck to the last, the King, yes! the King himself had sent a wreath, as a token of remembrance, to the obsequies of the woman who had saved his life, the purple velvet pall, with its glittering fringes of gold, had been the gift of the city of which Thord was the lately-elected Deputy, Louis Valdor had sent that garland of violets, the great wreath of roses which lay at the head of the coffin, was the offering of the famous little dancer, Pequita, who, it was said, now lay sick of a fever brought on by grief and fretting for the loss of her best friend, and rich and poor alike had vied with one another in assisting the weird beauty of this exceptional and strange burial, in which no sexton was employed but the wild wind, which would in due time scoop a hollow in the sea, and whirl down into fathomless deeps all that remained of a loving woman, with the offerings of a People's love around her!
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