consciousness, meeting response as subtle, filling
him with impatience at the mortality of man. He
glanced over his shoulder, then took her recklessly
in his arms.

"Is it possible you doubt I will come back?" he
demanded. "My faith?"

"No, not that. But such happiness seems to me
too great for this life."

He remembered how often he had been close to
death; he knew that during the greater part of the
next two years he should see the glimmer of the
scythe oftener yet. For a moment it seemed to
him that he felt the dark waters rise in his soul,
heard the jeers of the gods at the vanity of mortal
will. But the blood ran strong and warm in his
veins. He shook off the obsession, and smiled a
little cynically, even as he kissed her.

"This is the hour for romance, my dear. In the
years to come, when you are very prosaically my
wife with a thousand duties, and grumbling at my
exactions, your consolation will be the memory of
some moment like this, when you were able to feel
romantic and sad. I wish I could arrange for
some such set of memories for myself, but I am
unequal to your divine melancholy. When I can-
not see you I am cross and sulky; and just now--I