Paul was moved. He began as if to speak, then he remembered his promise
never to question her, and remained silent.

"Yes, my Paul--you have promised, you know," she said. "I am for you, your
love--your love--but living or dead you must never seek to know more!"

"Ah!" he cried, "you torture me when you speak like that. 'Living or
dead.' My God! that means us both--we stand or fall together."

"Dear one"--her voice fell softly into a note of intense
earnestness--"while fate lets us be together--yes--living or dead--but
if we must part, then either would be the cause of the death of the other
by further seeking--never forget that, my beloved one. Listen"--her eyes
took a sudden fierceness--"once I read your English book, 'The Lady and
the Tiger.' You remember it, Paul? She must choose which she would give
her lover to--death and the tiger, or to another and more beautiful woman.
One was left, you understand, to decide the end one's self. It caused
question at the moment; some were for one choice, some for the other--but
for me there was never any hesitation. I would give you to a thousand
tigers sooner than to another woman--just as I would give my life a
thousand times for your life, my lover."

"Darling," said Paul, "and I for yours, my fierce, adorable Queen. But why
should we speak of terrible things? Are we not happy today, and now, and
have you not told me to live while we may?"

"Come!" she said, and they walked on down to the gondola again, and
floated away out to the lagoon. But when they were there, far away from
the world, she talked in a new strain of earnestness to Paul. He must
promise to do something with his life--something useful and great in