The vast sympathy in the voice continued. “You do not know?—it is impossible! Love is or it is not. It is the longing of elements torn asunder, at the beginning of things, to be rejoined.”
The girl turned swiftly, her body erect, her face lifted.
“But this great act,” she cried. “My father, I, all of our blood, are moved by romance—by the romance of sacrifice. Look how my father died seeking an antidote for the pain of the world. How shall I meet this sacrifice of Lord Eckhart?”
Something strange began to dawn in the wide Mongolian face.
“What sacrifice?”
The girl came over swiftly to the table. She scattered the mass of jewels with a swift gesture.
“Did he not give everything he possessed, everything piece by piece, for this?”
She took the necklace up and twisted it around her fingers. Her hands appeared to be a mass of rubies.
A great light came into the Oriental's face.
“The necklace,” he said, “is a present to you from the Dalai Lama. It was entrusted to Lord Eckhart to deliver.”