“John—­John, if you want to, now—­you can tell me that my hair is beautiful!”

And then she was in his arms, her warm, sweet body crushed close to him, her face lifted to him, her soft hands stroking his face, and over and over again she was speaking his name while from out of his soul there rushed forth the mighty flood of his great love; and he held her there, forgetful of time now, forgetful of death itself; and he kissed her tender lips, her hair, her eyes—­conscious only that in the hour of death he had found life, that her hands were stroking his face, and caressing his hair, and that over and over again she was whispering sobbingly his name, and that she loved him.  The pressure of her hands against his breast at last made him free her.  And now, truly, she was glorious.  For the triumph of love had overridden the despair of death, and her face was flooded with its colour and in her eyes was its glory.

And then, as they stood there, a step between them, there came—­almost like the benediction of a cathedral bell—­the soft, low tinkling chime of the half-hour bell in Aldous’ watch!

It struck him like a blow.  Every muscle in him became like rigid iron, and his torn hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Joanne—­Joanne, it is impossible!” he cried huskily, and he had her close in his arms again, even as her face was whitening in the lantern-glow.  “I have lived for you, I have waited for you—­all these years you have been coming, coming, coming to me—­and now that you are mine—­mine—­it is impossible!  It cannot happen——­”

He freed her again, and caught up a lantern.  Foot by foot he examined the packed tunnel.  It was solid—­not a crevice or a break through which might have travelled the sound of his voice or the explosion of a gun.  He did not shout.  He knew that it would be hopeless, and that his voice would be terrifying in that sepulchral tomb.  Was it possible that there might be some other opening—­a possible exit—­in that mountain wall?  With the lantern in his hand he searched.  There was no break.  He came back to Joanne.  She was standing where he had left her.  And suddenly, as he looked at her, all fear went out of him, and he put down the lantern and went to her.

“Joanne,” he whispered, holding her two hands against his breast, “you are not afraid?”

“No, I am not afraid.”

“And you know——­”

“Yes, I know,” and she leaned forward so that her head lay partly against their clasped hands and partly upon his breast.

“And you love me, Joanne?”

“As I never dreamed that I should love a man, John Aldous,” she whispered.

“And yet it has been but two days——­”

“And I have lived an eternity,” he heard her lips speak softly.

“You would be my wife?”

“Yes.”

“To-morrow?”

“If you wanted me then, John.”

“I thank God,” he breathed in her hair.  “And you would come to me without reservation, Joanne, trusting me, believing in me—­you would come to me body, and heart, and soul?”