She raised her hand forbiddingly.
"I could not give to him who is gone that which I gave to you! When we first met I was your foe. I hated you with all the hate which a Roman has for the despoiler of his lands. When I gave you my love,—which, alas, was not mine to give, I did so, a powerless instrument of Fate. Side by side have we trod life's narrow path,—neither of us could turn to right or left without standing accounted to the other. It was not ours to say love this one or that other. We were brought together by that same mysterious force, to which it is vain to cry halt. We knew,—I knew,—that it must, sooner or later, carry us to doom and death; but resistlessly the whirlwind had taken us up in its glistening cloud: Thus are we lost;—you and I!"
He listened to her with a great fear in his soul.
"How cold your hands are, my love," he whispered. "Cold as if the flow of blood had ceased. Can you feel how it rushes through my veins,—so hot—so boiling hot?"
"You have the fever! Therefore my hands appear cold to you. But,—you spoke truly,—in my hand is death,—and death is cold! Life I have none,—you have taken it from me!"
"Stephania!"
It sounded like the last outcry of a broken heart.
"Why recall that which could not be averted? Were it mine to change it, oh, that I could!"
"Do you really wish it?"
"I wish but your happiness. Can you doubt?"