She flung herself beside him on the straw and wound her arms about him, and laid his head to rest upon her heart; one moment—he would never know.
Between them there would be forever silence. He would never know.
Greatness would come to him, and the dominion of gold; and the work of his hands would pass amidst the treasures of the nations; and he would live and arise and say, "The desire of my heart is mine;"—and yet he would never know that one creature had so loved him that she had perished more horribly than by death to save him.
If he lived to the uttermost years of man, he would never know how, body and soul, she had passed away to destruction for his sake.
To die with him!
She laughed to think how sweet and calm such sacrifice as that had been.
Amidst the folded lilies, on the white waters, as the moon rose,—she laughed to think how she had sometimes dreamed to slay herself in such tender summer peace for him. That was how women perished whom men loved, and loved enough to die with them, their lips upon each other's to the last. But she——
Death in peace; sacrifice in honor; a little memory in a human heart; a little place in a great hereafter; these were things too noble for her—so they said.
A martyrdom in shame; a life in ignominy—these were all to which she might aspire—so they said.
Upon his breast women would sink to sleep; among his hair their hands would wander, and on his mouth their sighs would spend themselves. Shut in the folded leaves of the unblossomed years some dreams of passion and some flower of love must lie for him—that she knew.