winding his arms about her, he drew her close against his breast and looked down on the dreamy fairness of her face,—­“Would there were such a thing as Death for souls like mine and thine!  Would we might die most absolutely thus, heart against heart, never to wake again and loathe eathtypo or archaism? other!  Who speaks of the cool sweetness of the grave,—­the quiet ending of all strife,—­the unbreaking seal of Fate, the deep and stirless rest? ...  These things are not, and never were, . . for the grave gives up its dead,—­the strife is forever and ever resumed,—­the seal is broken, and in all the laboring Universe there shall be found no rest, and no forgetfulness, . . ah, God! ... no forgetfulness!” A shudder ran through his frame,—­and clasping her almost roughly, he stooped toward her till his lips nearly touched hers, . .  “Thou art accursed, Lysia,—­and I share thy curse!  Speak—­how shall we cheer each other in the shadow-realm of fiends?  Thou shall be Queen there, and I thy servitor,—­we will make us merry with the griefs of others,—­our music shall be the dropping of lost women’s tears, and the groans of betrayed and tortured men,—­and the light around us shall be quenchless fire!  Shall it not be so, Lysia? ... and thinkest thou that we shall ever regret the loss of Heaven?”

The words rushed impetuously from his lips; he thought little and cared less what he said, so long as he could, by speech, no matter how incoherent, relieve in part, the terrible oppression of vague memories that burdened his brain.  But she, listening, drew herself swiftly from his embrace and stood up,—­her large eyes fixed full upon him with an expression of wondering scorn and fear.

“Thou art mad!” she said, a quiver of alarm in her voice ...  “Mad as Khosrul, and all his evil-croaking brethren!  I offer thee Love,—­ and thou pratest of death,—­life is here in all the fulness of the now, for thy delight, and thou ravest of an immortal Hereafter which is not, and can never be!  Why talk thus wildly? ... why gaze on me with so distraught a countenance?  But an hour agone, thou wert the model of a cold discretion and quiet valor,—­thus I had judged thee worthy of my favor—­favor sought by many, and granted to few, . . but an thou dost wander amid such chaotic and unreasoning fancies, thou canst not serve me,—­nor therefore canst thou win the reward that would otherwise have awaited thee."...

Here she paused,—­a questioning, keen under-glance flashed from beneath her dark lashes, . . he, however, with pained, wistful eyes raised steadfastly to hers, gave no sign of apology or contrition for the disconnected strangeness of his recent outburst.  Only he became gradually conscious of an inward, growing calm,—­as though the Divine Voice that had once soothed the angry waves of Galilee were now hushing his turbulent emotions with a soft “Peace be still!” She watched him closely, . .and all at once apparently rendered impatient by his impassive attitude, she came coaxingly toward him, and laid one soft hand on his shoulder.