“I do not think,” replied I, “that we have any of us long to live; and when the curtain drops on this mortal scene, where, think you, we shall find ourselves?” Idris was calmed by my unembarrassed tone and look; she answered:—­“You may easily believe that during this long progress of the plague, I have thought much on death, and asked myself, now that all mankind is dead to this life, to what other life they may have been borne.  Hour after hour, I have dwelt on these thoughts, and strove to form a rational conclusion concerning the mystery of a future state.  What a scare-crow, indeed, would death be, if we were merely to cast aside the shadow in which we now walk, and, stepping forth into the unclouded sunshine of knowledge and love, revived with the same companions, the same affections, and reached the fulfilment of our hopes, leaving our fears with our earthly vesture in the grave.  Alas! the same strong feeling which makes me sure that I shall not wholly die, makes me refuse to believe that I shall live wholly as I do now.  Yet, Lionel, never, never, can I love any but you; through eternity I must desire your society; and, as I am innocent of harm to others, and as relying and confident as my mortal nature permits, I trust that the Ruler of the world will never tear us asunder.”

“Your remarks are like yourself, dear love,” replied I, “gentle and good; let us cherish such a belief, and dismiss anxiety from our minds.  But, sweet, we are so formed, (and there is no sin, if God made our nature, to yield to what he ordains), we are so formed, that we must love life, and cling to it; we must love the living smile, the sympathetic touch, and thrilling voice, peculiar to our mortal mechanism.  Let us not, through security in hereafter, neglect the present.  This present moment, short as it is, is a part of eternity, and the dearest part, since it is our own unalienably.  Thou, the hope of my futurity, art my present joy.  Let me then look on thy dear eyes, and, reading love in them, drink intoxicating pleasure.”

Timidly, for my vehemence somewhat terrified her, Idris looked on me.  My eyes were bloodshot, starting from my head; every artery beat, methought, audibly, every muscle throbbed, each single nerve felt.  Her look of wild affright told me, that I could no longer keep my secret:—­“So it is, mine own beloved,” I said, “the last hour of many happy ones is arrived, nor can we shun any longer the inevitable destiny.  I cannot live long—­but, again and again, I say, this moment is ours!”

Paler than marble, with white lips and convulsed features, Idris became aware of my situation.  My arm, as I sat, encircled her waist.  She felt the palm burn with fever, even on the heart it pressed:—­“One moment,” she murmured, scarce audibly, “only one moment.”—­

She kneeled, and hiding her face in her hands, uttered a brief, but earnest prayer, that she might fulfil her duty, and watch over me to the last.  While there was hope, the agony had been unendurable;—­all was now concluded; her feelings became solemn and calm.  Even as Epicharis, unperturbed and firm, submitted to the instruments of torture, did Idris, suppressing every sigh and sign of grief, enter upon the endurance of torments, of which the rack and the wheel are but faint and metaphysical symbols.