Iron Butterflies by Andre Norton

that a single eye could convey such meaning.
    Perhaps because he was near to the end of existence there was given him at that moment some power of unspoken communication no one of us who was not bound by his fate could understand. Never afterward could I say how long I stood there, held by his survey of me. But I believed that I also learned something of which I was ever after sure. For all the circumstances, for all the anger I had felt for him, my grandfather had truly been worthy of the woman he had seemed to desert and repudiate. I would never know the barriers intrigue and duty had raised between them, but they were well matched in courage, in strength and—in love. Not perhaps what that word means to most—no, this was an emotion which had been deeper, stronger,little of the body perhaps, but much of the mind and spirit.
    For the third time he wrote and the message was passed to me, it was longer this time and he had to pause several times. There were beads of moisture on his forehead, the sense of concentration which radiated from him impressed me as much as had his gaze. He was forcing his body to obey his will in a passion of need.
    “My blood—Lydia's. I had to know. Safe—make you safe—will make sure—safe—wait for plan—he will help—do not trust—”
    The pen fell, he had sunk back in his cushions, that speaking eye closed. As the Colonel removed paper and pen I dared to move, leaning over the edge of the bed, I reached out and took that now lax hand into both of mine, wishing that clasp to make him understand that I knew the truth of what he had tried to tell me.
    His flesh was cold, but the fingers did not remain flaccid, instead they tightened in mine with determination. Moved by an emotion I did not try to understand, I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it.
    His eye opened, his lips writhed in a last attempt to speak. I read the frustration, the horror of his own helplessness.
    “Grandfather,” I said softly. “I know—”
    How I wished at that moment we had a day, a week, or perhaps even an hour— This was not the Elector lying here, it was Joachim von Harrach who had once found another life, perhaps far more peaceful and happy, in another land and another time.
    “See,” I pointed to the necklace I wore. “She gave it to me—wanted me to know— In the end—now—she understands—everything.”
    It was not my imagination, I felt his grip tighten even more in mine. Once more his gaze was demanding. He needed something and I thought I knew what it was.
    “She told me to come,” I said slowly and distinctly. “She wanted this—for us to meet.”

    His head moved a fraction in what could only be a nod. Then he turned a little away from me to look at the man by my side. The gaze he directed on the Colonel was a speaking one, even as had been that between us earlier, though what message he would convey by it I could not guess.
    There was a sudden sound from the door. My grandfather's hand turned in mine, sought freedom. I laid it down on his breast. The Colonel's grip fell on my shoulder and he drew me back from the bed.
    “Come!” His voice was a whisper. He drew me on toward a tall screen at the other side of the room. I was pushed behind this with little ceremony just as the outer door opened with some force.
    A gray-haired man, wearing a coat which was not the usual servant's livery but which bore a crest on the shoulder, and a loop of gold cord bearing a medallion resting on his chest, slipped inside and glanced about the room. It seemed to me that he sent an extra searching glance in the direction of the screen and I was certain that he gave the slightest of nods before he turned back toward the door.
    He crossed quickly then to the side of my grandfather's bed and took up the Elector's hand, setting his fingers to the pulse at the wrist with a professional ease, while the Elector turned his head back to face the door itself. There had been a perfunctory scratching there and