Very slowly Ste. Marie opened his eyes, and in the soft half-light the girl’s face was bent above him, dark and sweet and beautiful—­near, so near that her breath was warm upon his lips.  He said her name again in an incredulous whisper: 

“Coira!  Coira!”

And she said, “I am here.”

But the man was in a strange border-land of half-consciousness and his ears were deaf.  He said, gazing up at her: 

“Is it—­another dream?”

And he tried to raise one hand from where it lay beside him, but the hand wavered and fell aslant across his body.  It had not the strength yet to obey him.  He said, still in his weak whisper: 

“Oh, beautiful—­and sweet—­and true!”

The girl gave a little sob and hid her face.

“A goddess!” he whispered. “‘A queen among goddesses!’ That’s—­what the little Jew said.  ‘A queen among goddesses.  The young Juno before—­’” He stirred restlessly where he lay, and he complained:  “My head hurts!  What’s the matter with my head?  It hurts!”

She dipped one of the towels in the basin of cold water and held it to the man’s brow.  The chill of it must have been grateful, for his eyes closed and he breathed a little satisfied “Ah!”

“It mustn’t hurt to-night,” said he.  “To-night at two—­by the little door in the garden wall.  And he’s coming with us.  The young fool is coming with us....  So she and I go out of each other’s lives....  Coira!” he cried, with a sudden sharpness.  “Coira, I won’t have it!  Am I going to lose you ... like this?  Am I going to lose you, after all ... now that we know?”

He put up his hand once more, a weak and uncertain hand.  It touched the girl’s warm cheek and a sudden violent shiver wrung the man on the couch.  His eyes sharpened and stared with something like fear.

“Real!” he cried, whispering.  “Real? ...  Not a dream?”

“Oh, very real, my Bayard!” said she.  A thought came to her, and she drew away from the couch and sat back upon her heels, looking at the man with grave and sombre eyes.  In that moment she fought within herself a battle of right and wrong.  “He doesn’t remember,” she said.  “He doesn’t know.  He is like a little child.  He knows nothing but that we two—­are here together.  Nothing else.  Nothing!”

His state was plain to see.  He dwelt still in that vague border-land between worlds.  He had brought with him no memories, and no memories followed him save those her face had wakened.  Within the girl a great and tender passion of love fought for possession of this little hour.

“It will be all I shall ever have!” she cried, piteously.  “And it cannot harm him.  He won’t remember it when he comes to his senses.  He’ll sleep again and—­forget.  He’ll go back to her and never know.  And I shall never even see him again.  Why can’t I have my little sweet hour?”

Once more the man cried her name, and she knelt forward and bent above him.  “Oh, at last, Coira!” said he.  “After so long! ...  And I thought it was another dream!”