In the cold, cold grave.
In the grave.
A crashing chord, dissonant, fierce, overbore all things, and out of it rose mellow the first chime of eleven.
She leant forward, her eyes full of allure, on his. "Out with the lamps, Love needs no light," she quoted rapidly.
"One!" Her curved red lips smiled, parted, and one of the cressets was gone. Its dying breath exhaled perfumes of musk.
Again the mellow note rang out.
"Two," she whispered and again a cresset flickered, went out.
"Three."
"Four." This time the Mirza seemed to be listening.
"It will be counting kisses by and by when light fails," she suggested gaily, pointing to the three remaining lamplets.
"Five--"