“May I not die?” she cried despairingly. “May I not die—for him—for her, for both? Would that not be enough? Would they not meet? Would they not then be free?”
“Do you love him still?”
“With all my broken heart——”
“Then do not leave his happiness to chance alone, but go at once. There is one little act of Heaven’s work still in your power. Make it all yours.”
His great hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes looked down to hers.
“Is it so bitter to do right?” he asked.
“It is very bitter,” she answered.
Very slowly she turned, and as she moved he went beside her, gently urging her and seeming to support her. Slowly, through vestibule and passage, they went on and entered together the great hall of the flowers. The Wanderer was there alone.
He uttered a short cry and sprang to meet her, but stepped back in awe of the great white-robed figure that towered by her side.
“Beatrice!” he cried, as they passed.