natural characteristic of the masculine nature—­but Love—­ love that endures silently and faithfully through the stress of trouble and the passing of years—­love which sacrifices everything to the beloved and never changes or falters,—­this is a divine passion which seldom or never sanctifies and inspires the life of a man.  Women are not made of such base material; their love invariably springs first from the Ideal, not the Sensual, and if afterwards it develops into the sensual, it is through the rough and coarsening touch of man alone.

Throughout the entire day the Princess Ziska herself never left her private apartments, and towards late afternoon Gervase began to feel the hours drag along with unconscionable slowness and monotony.  Never did the sun seem so slow in sinking; never did the night appear so far off.  When at last dinner was served in the hotel, both Denzil Murray and Dr. Dean sat next to him at table, and, judging from outward appearances, the most friendly relations existed between all three of them.  At the close of the meal, however, Denzil made a sign to Gervase to follow him, and when they had reached a quiet corner, said: 

“I am aware of your victory; you have won where I have lost.  But you know my intention?”

“Perfectly!” responded Gervase, with a cool smile.

“By Heaven!” went on the younger man, in accents of suppressed fury, “if I yielded to the temptation which besets me when I see you standing there facing me, with your easy and self-satisfied demeanor,—­when I know that you mean dishonor where I meant honor,—­when you have had the effrontery to confess to me that you only intend to make the Princess Ziska your mistress when I would have made her my wife,—­God!  I could shoot you dead at this moment!”

Gervase looked at him steadily, still smiling slightly; then gradually the smile died away, leaving his countenance shadowed by an intense melancholy.

“I can quite enter into your feelings, my dear boy!” he said.  “And do you know, I’m not sure that it would not be a good thing if you were to shoot me dead!  My life is of no particular value to anybody,—­certainly not to myself; and I begin to think I’ve been always more or less of a failure.  I have won fame, but I have missed—­something—­but upon my word, I don’t quite know what!”

He sighed heavily, then suddenly held out his hand.

“Denzil, the bitterest foes shake hands before fighting each other to the death, as we propose to do to-morrow; it is a civil custom and hurts no one, I should like to part kindly from you to-night!”

Denzil hesitated; then something stronger than himself made him yield to the impulsive note of strong emotion in his former friend’s voice, and the two men’s hands met in a momentary silent grasp.  Then Denzil turned quickly away.

“To-morrow morning at six,” he said, briefly; “close to the Sphinx.”

“Good!” responded Gervase.  “The Sphinx shall second us both and see fair play.  Good-night, Denzil!”