Without daring to look up, he tugged at the hem of Dolores’ robe.
“You’re to go—to leave Gehenna,” he upflung in his immortal fright. “Don’t wait to prepare. Take this signet ring. It will pass you through the gates. Hurry, lest you ruin me with the rest of those that craved you. Go, Dolores. As you love me—as you hate—for Hell’s sake, go!”
For long after she had gone he lay. Only his lips moved, muttering.
“He could have finished me that time. He must have certain powers of His own, like—like her. Since He can come and go at will, I wonder why He waits. To-night—I feel afraid—that my Great Intention——”
The winds sounded to be subsiding. Evidently they had roused in his spirit-bride’s defense. In time he risked a glance toward the Sign. Entirely it had faded. Not a glimmer of it remained to place that picture of wondrous loveliness which lately it had lit.
A sob racked His Lowness. His hands searched about, as though for some treasure he had lost.
“Dolores, Dolores, Grief to Men and me. What a fate, to learn love from the loss of it!”
His fingers found something to clutch. Sitting up, he examined what they contained—fragments of the illusion of her veil. He bathed his face in them; swayed sensuously to the feel of them.
“Even the mist of your memory weakens me. Wasted—you—when I may never be so bad again?”
He became interested in a stinging sensation in one eye never felt before. With a forefinger he touched the lid. Its tip was not moist. Yet the pressure within increased. Excitement caught him as he realized what must be about to occur. He lifted his voice in a shouted command.