"There should be proof," he says, sadly.
And she says,
"Yes, there should be proof," in a tone from which all feeling, and hope, and happiness have fled.
And yet the world grows brighter. The early morn springs forth and glads the air.
"But, nor Orient morn,
Nor fragrant zephyr, nor Arabian climes,
Nor gilded ceilings can relieve the soul
Pining in thraldom."
A long pause follows her sentence, that to him has savored of death. Then he speaks:
"Let me raise your gown," he says, with heart-broken gentleness, "the dew of morning is on the grass."
He lifts her train as he says this, and lays it across the bare and lovely arm that had been his for some blessed minutes. As he sees it, and remembers everything—all that might have been, and all that has been, and all that is—a dry sob chokes his voice and, stooping, he presses his lips passionately to her smooth, cool flesh.
At this she bursts into bitter weeping; and, letting her glimmering white gown fall once again in its straight, cold folds around her, gives way to uncontrollable sorrow.
"Must there be grief for you, too, my own sweetheart?" says Fabian; and then he lays his arms around her and draws her to him, and holds her close to his heart until her sobs die away through pure exhaustion. But he never bends his head to hers, or seeks to press his lips to those—that are sweet and dear beyond expression—but that never can be his. Even at this supreme moment he strives to spare her a passing pang.