I suppose that the mere acknowledgment of their love had eased the tension of dread, had waked, perhaps, that foolish human certainty of passion to survive the loss even of its own identity. Perhaps they had never had any real hope of avoiding the issue; insensibly, too, as the matter had increased in gravity, the young listeners had melted from the circle, leaving a ring of older, sterner faces, before which they felt their resolution fail. We saw the girl turn piteously in her lover’s arms.
“You,” she said, “at least will not forget me.”
“I will not forget.”
“See,” Persilope smiled faintly, and shaking a little of the pale green liquid from the bowl, “I have made it light for you.”
The girl kept her eyes on the young man. “And I am yours,” she urged; “whether or not I remember, I am yours.”
“Knowing or unknowing,” the young lover assured, “I call these to witness that you are mine.”
Daria put out her hand and took the bowl from Persilope, but her lover put his hand upon it over hers, holding it back until he charged her soul again.
She lifted the Cup and shuddered as she drank; once she faltered, but he pressed it firmly to her lips. No one moved in the listening circle. The wind was busy with the forest boughs; we saw the redwoods bend and the curdling of the water at the falls. We saw Daria’s head bowing on its slender stalk, like the wild white columbine which the wind shook behind her.
“You will remember,” still her lover warned her.
“I will remember.”