'Shall I plant a kiss upon thy brow, Saronia, sealing our vows?'
'Dost thou not fear this awful thing?'
'No. I care not for death now. If I go, I will wait for thee and for love; thou wilt not long survive. Methinks our spirits have already been one. If I fall, thou wilt not remain long away. Death will hasten our union.'
Then, taking her head between his hands, he kissed her, and kissed the silver shrine, and moved out into the gloom.
The night passed, the day came forth in rosy splendour, such a day as is only experienced in the beautiful Ionian land.
The air was balmy and perfume laden, the winds scarcely stirred the trembling leaves, the birds sang with joyous notes—all Nature smiled.
Chios passed through the myrtle garden to his studio, but the brush was powerless in his hand. Last night's adventure was uppermost in his thoughts, as well it might be. It was in his sober moments when judgment reigned, and love lay calmly on his soul, that he became fully aware of what he had done. He leant against a pillar, and reflected upon his position. He had entered into the fight, he had broken the ranks. He was a mariner who must weather the gale on the deck of his craft. There was no escape for him, neither did he desire one.
He, like a master mind, surveyed his position. He had pledged his love to one who could never return it on earth. He would walk alone until his release. Joy in anticipation of their reunion was sufficient for him. True, he felt there was a great disparity in their relative positions—she a mighty priestess, he a sceptic of her faith. But what of that? He believed in Saronia, and she believed in him. Let the faiths go to the winds! If he found not a new god that he might worship—well, then he would make Saronia the goddess of his soul, and worship her with a love that would raise the jealousy of the gods. But if he found the great Spirit who demanded his love and service, then such should have his supreme adoration. But no god or goddess spoke to him. Therefore he knew no being superior to Saronia. She was his life; fearful as she was in her mighty incantations, he feared her not. Her mysteries he heeded not, the magic of her being satisfied his craving for union with that which completed the circle of his existence. He had found it in this lovely girl, and he measured this subtle, endless affinity against that which the world calls love, where men take wives for a fragment of time and think not, care not, whether that love continues in the great hereafter, and content themselves with the thought that they may be free when born anew from the womb of death. His love was a sacred love, a pure and perfect one, and he was happy amidst all the mazes of the circumstances by which he had made it known to Saronia.