“The garden,” she whispered.  “I smell the box....  The path was all in sunshine.  So quiet, so hushed....  I went a little farther, and I heard your voice where you sat and read—­and read of Eloisa.... Oh, Evelyn, Evelyn!”

“The last time—­the last farewell!” he said.  “When the Golden Rose is far at sea, when the winds blow, when the stars drift below the verge, when the sea speaks, then may I forget you, may the vision of you pass!  Now at Fair View it passes not; it dwells.  Night and day I behold you, the woman that I love, the woman that I love in vain!”

“The Golden Rose!” she answered.  “The sea....  Alas!”

Her voice had risen into a cry.  The walls of the room were gone, the air pressed upon her heavily, the lights wavered, the waters were passing over her as they had passed that night of the witch’s hut.  How far away the bank upon which he stood!  He spoke to her, and his voice came faintly as from that distant shore or from the deck of a swiftly passing ship.  “And so it is good-by, sweetheart; for why should I stay in Virginia?  Ah, if you loved me, Audrey!  But since it is not so—­Good-by, good-by.  This time I’ll not forget you, but I will not come again.  Good-by!”

Her lips moved, but there came no words.  A light had dawned upon her face, her hand was lifted as though to stay a sound of music.  Suddenly she turned toward him, swayed, and would have fallen but that his arm caught and upheld her.  Her head was thrown back; the soft masses of her wonderful hair brushed his cheek and shoulder; her eyes looked past him, and a smile, pure and exquisite past expression, just redeemed her face from sadness.  “Good-morrow, Love!” she said clearly and sweetly.

At the sound of her own words came to her the full realization and understanding of herself.  With a cry she freed herself from his supporting arm, stepped backward and looked at him.  The color surged over her face and throat, her eyelids drooped; while her name was yet upon his lips she answered with a broken cry of ecstasy and abandonment.  A moment and she was in his arms and their lips had met.

How quiet it was in the long room, where the myrtle candles gave out their faint perfume and the low fire leaped upon the hearth!  Thus for a time; then, growing faint with her happiness, she put up protesting hands.  He made her sit in the great chair, and knelt before her, all youth and fire, handsome, ardent, transfigured by his passion into such a lover as a queen might desire.

“Hail, Sultana!” he said, smiling, his eyes upon her diadem.  “Now you are Arpasia again, and I am Moneses, and ready, ah, most ready, to die for you.”

She also smiled.  “Remember that I am to quickly follow you.”

“When shall we marry?” he demanded.  “The garden cries out for you, my love, and I wish to hear your footstep in my house.  It hath been a dreary house, filled with shadows, haunted by keen longings and vain regrets.  Now the windows shall be flung wide and the sunshine shall pour in.  Oh, your voice singing through the rooms, your foot upon the stairs!” He took her hands and put them to his lips.  “I love as men loved of old,” he said.  “I am far from myself and my times.  When will you become my wife?”