"My Paul," she said, when at last only the rare fruits and the golden wine
remained, and they were quite alone--even the musicians had retired, and
their airs floated up from a gondola below. "My Paul, I want you never to
forget this night--never to think of me but as gloriously happy, clasped in
your arms amid the roses. And see, we must drink once more together of our
wedding wine, and complete our souls' delight."

An eloquence seemed to come to Paul and loosen his tongue, so that he
whispered back paeans of worship in language as fine as her own. And the
moon flooded the loggia with her light, and the roses gave forth their
scent. It was the supreme effort of art and nature to cover them with
glorious joy.

"My darling one," the lady whispered in his ear, as she lay in his arms on
the couch of roses, crushed deep and half buried in their velvet leaves,
"this is our souls' wedding. In life and in death they can never part
more."

* * * * *

Dawn was creeping through the orchid blinds of their sleeping chamber when
this strange Queen disengaged herself from her lover's embrace, and bent
over him, kissing his young curved lips. He stirred not--the languor of
utter prostration was upon him, and held him in its grasp. In the uncertain
light his sleep looked pale as death.

The lady gazed at him, an anguish too deep for tears in her eyes. For was
not this the end--the very end? Fierce, dry sobs shook her. There was
something terrible and tigerish in her grief. And yet her will made her
not linger--there was still one thing to do.