As he said this, he took a step forward. Pollexfen threw open his vest, raised himself to his loftiest height, and solemnly said: "Fire! or strike! as the case may be; I shall offer no resistance. I only beg of you, as a gentleman, to hear me through before you play the part of assassin."
Their eyes met. The struck lamb gazing at the eagle! Vengeance encountering Faith! The pause was but momentary. "I will hear you," said Courtland, sinking into a chair, already exhausted by his passion.
Pollexfen did not move. Confronting the lover, he told his story truthfully to the end. He plead for his life; for he felt the proud consciousness of having performed an act of duty that bordered upon the heroic.
Still, there was no relenting in the eye of Courtland. It had that expression in it that betokens blood. Cæsar saw it as Brutus lifted his dagger. Henry of Navarre recognized it as the blade of Ravillac sank into his heart. Joaquin beheld it gleaming in the vengeful orbs of Harry Love! Pollexfen, too, understood the language that it spoke.
Dropping his hands, and taking one stride toward the young man, he sorrowfully said: "I have but one word more to utter. Your affianced bride has joyfully sacrificed one of her lustrous eyes to science. In doing so, she expressed but one regret, that you, whom she loved better than vision, or even life, might, as the years roll away, forget to love her in her mutilation as you did in her beauty. Perfect yourself, she feared mating with imperfection might possibly estrange your heart. Your superiority in personal appearance might constantly disturb the perfect equilibrium of love."
He ceased. The covert meaning was seized with lightning rapidity by Courtland. Springing to his feet, he exclaimed joyfully: "The sacrifice must be mutual. God never created a soul that could outdo Charles Courtland's in generosity."
Flinging his useless dagger upon the floor, he threw himself into the already extended arms of the photographer, and begged him "to be quick with the operation." The artist required no second invitation, and ere the last words died upon his lips, the sightless ball of his left eye swung from its socket.
There was no cry of pain; no distortion of the young man's features with agony; no moan, or sob, or sigh. As he closed firmly his right eye, and compressed his pallid lips, a joyous smile lit up his whole countenance that told the spectator how superior even human love is to the body's anguish; how willingly the severest sacrifice falls at the beck of honor!
I shall attempt no description of the manner in which I received the astounding news from the lips of the imperturbable Pollexfen; nor prolong this narrative by detailing the meeting of the lovers, their gradual recovery, their marriage, and their departure for the vales of Dauphiny. It is but just to add, however, that Pollexfen added two thousand five hundred dollars to the bank account of Mademoiselle Marmont, on the day of her nuptials, as a bridal present, given, no doubt, partially as a compensation to the heroic husband for his voluntary mutilation.
Long months elapsed after the departure of Lucile and her lover before the world heard anything more of the photographer.