“What is the other reason for your going?” she asked at length.

“What other reason?”

“You said your inheritance, or the evidence you require in order to obtain it, was one of the principal reasons for your going.  I suppose there is another?”

“Yes, Countess, there is another reason, but I cannot tell you now what it is.”

“I have no right to ask, of course,” said Margaret,—­“unless I can help you,” she added, in her soft, deep voice.

“You have more right than you think, far more right,” answered Claudius.  “And I thank you for the kind thought of help.  It is very good of you.”  He turned towards her, and leaned upon his hand as he sat.  Still the fog rolled up, and the lifeless sea seemed overshed with an unctuous calm.  They were almost in the dark on their strip of beach, and the moisture was already clinging in great, thick drops to their clothes, and to the rocks where they sat.  Still Claudius looked at Margaret, and Margaret looked at the narrow band of oily water still uncovered by the mist.

“When are you going?” she asked slowly, as if hating to meet the answer.

“To-night,” said Claudius, still looking earnestly at her.  The light was gone from her eyes, and the flush had long sunk away to the heart whence it had come.

“To-night?” she repeated, a little vaguely.

“Yes,” he said, and waited; then after a moment, “Shall you mind when I am gone?” He leaned towards her, earnestly looking into her face.

“Yes,” said Margaret, “I shall be sorry.”  Her voice was kind, and very gentle.  Still she did not look at him.  Claudius held out his right hand, palm upward, to meet hers.

“Shall you mind much?” he asked earnestly, with intent eyes.  She met his hand and took it.

“Yes, I shall be very sorry.”  Claudius slipped from the rock where he was sitting, and fell upon one knee before her, kissing the hand she gave as though it had been the holy cross.  He looked up, his face near hers, and at last he met her eyes, burning with a startled light under the black brows, contrasting with the white of her forehead, and face, and throat.  He looked one moment.

“Shall you really mind very much?” he asked a third time, in a strange, lost voice.  There was no answer, only the wet fog all around, and those two beautiful faces ashy pale in the mist, and very near together.  One instant so—­and then—­ah, God! they have cast the die at last, for he has wound his mighty arms about her, and is passionately kissing the marble of her cheek.

“My beloved, my beloved, I love you—­with, all my heart, and with all my soul, and with all my strength”—­but she speaks no word, only her arms pass his and hang about his neck, and her dark head lies on his breast; and could you but see her eyes, you would see also the fair pearls that the little god has formed deep down in the ocean of love—­the lashes thereof are wet with sudden weeping.  And all around them the deep, deaf fog, thick and muffled as darkness, and yet not dark.