"I—love—Diana! And, in two weeks, I am to wed Diana. And a few hours afterwards, I am to leave Diana—for ever! 'Son of man, behold I take away from thee the Desire of thine eyes with a stroke.' To sail for Central Africa; and never to look upon her face again—the face of my own wife. 'And at even my wife died.' But my wife will not die," said David. "Thank God, it is I who bring the offering of myrrh. Because of this that I can do for her, my wife will live, rich, happy, contented, useful. Her home, her wealth, her happy life, will be my gift to her. But—if Diana knew I loved her, she would never accept this service from me."
David had been pacing the room. He now stood still, leaning his hands on the table, where glimmered the one candle.
"Can I," he said, slowly, asking himself deliberately the question: "Can I carry this thing through, without letting Diana suspect how much more it means to me, than she intends; how much more than it means to her? Can I wed the Desire of mine eyes in the morning, look my last upon her in the afternoon, and leave her, without her knowing that I love her?"
He asked himself the question, slowly, deliberately, leaning heavily on the study table.
Then he stood erect, his head thrown back, his deep eyes shining, and answered the question with another.
"Is there anything a man cannot do for the woman he loves?" said David Rivers.
He went to the window, drew back the heavy rep curtains, unbarred the shutters, and looked out.
There was, as yet, no sign of dawn, but through the frosty pane, right before him, as a lamp in the purple sky, shone the bright morning star.
Cold though he was, stiff from his long night vigil, David threw up the window-sash, that he might see the star shine clearly, undimmed by frosty fronds, traced on the window-pane.
He dropped on one knee, folding his arms upon the woodwork of the sill.