Suddenly, as the tempest paused as if to catch its breath, she heard footsteps in the corridor outside.  It was very late—­who could be prowling about at this hour?  She listened intently, every nerve and sense keenly alert.  Nearer and nearer the steps came, and then she remembered with a start that in the excitement of her stealthy return to the hotel and the anguish and madness of their parting, she had forgotten to fasten her door.

There came a light tap on the panel.  She did not speak or move—­hardly breathed.  Then the door opened, noiselessly, cautiously, and he—­her lover, her king—­entered, the dim light of her room making his form, as it approached, appear of even more than its usual majestic height and power.

“Paul!” she whispered.

He seemed in a strange daze.  Had the storm gone to his head and driven him mad?

“Yes, it is I,” he said hoarsely.  “It is Paul.  Don’t cry out.  See, I am calm!” and he laid his hand on hers.  It was burning with fever.  “I will not hurt you, Opal!”

Cry out?  Hurt her?  What did he mean?  She had no thought of crying out.  Of course he would not hurt her—­her lover, her lord, her king!  Did she not belong to him—­now?

He sat down and took her hands in his.

“Opal,” he muttered, “I’ve been thinking, thinking, thinking, till I feel half-mad—­yes, mad!  Dearest, I cannot give you up like this—­I cannot!  Let you go to his arms—­you who have been mine!  Oh, Opal, I’ve pictured it all to myself—­seen you in his arms—­seen his lips on yours—­seen—­seen—­Can’t you imagine what it means to me?  It’s more than I can stand, dearest!  I may be crazy—­I believe I am—­but wouldn’t it be better for you and me to—­to—­cease forever this mockery of life, and—­forget?”

She did not understand him.

“Forget?” she murmured, holding his hand against her cheek, while her free arm pulled his head down to hers.  “Forget?”

He pressed his burning lips to her cool neck, and then, after a moment, went on, “Yes, beloved, to forget.  Think, Opal, think!  To forget all ambition, all restlessness, all disappointment, all longing for what can never be, all pain, all suffering, all thought of responsibility or growth or desire, all success or failure—­all life, all death—­to forget! to forget!  Ah, dearest, one must have loved as we have loved, and lost as we have lost, to wish to—­forget!”

“But there is no such respite for us, Paul.  We are not the sort who can put memory aside.  To live will be to remember!”

“Yes, that is it.  To live is to remember.  But why should we live longer?  We’ve lived a lifetime in one day, have we not, sweetheart?  What more has life to give us?”

He was calmer now, but it was the calmness of determination.

“Let us die, dear—­let us die!  Virginius slew his daughter to save her honor.  You are more to me than a thousand daughters.  You are my wife, Opal!—­Opal, my very own!”