“You’re big—­you’re big enough to see this as I see it, and big enough to let me do it. ...  You will be when—­the surprise and the first hurt of it have gone.  It’s asking just one more thing of you—­ when you’ve willingly given so much. ...  But it’s I who do the harder giving.  In a few months, in a year, you will have forgotten me. ...  I can never forget you.  Every day and every hour I’ll be reminded of you.  I’ll be thinking of you. ...  When I greet him it will be you I’m greeting. ...  When I am pretending to—­to care for him, it will be you I am loving.  The thought of that, and the knowledge of what I am doing for those poor men—­will be all the happiness I shall have... will give me courage to live on and to go on. ...  You believe me, don’t you, dear?  You must, you must believe me!”

He approached her again.  “Look at me!...  Look at me,” he demanded, and she gave her eyes to his.  They were pure eyes, the eyes of an enthusiast, the eyes of a martyr.  He could not misread them, even in his passion he could not doubt them. ...  The elevation of her soul shone through them.  Constancy, steadfastness, courage, determination, sureness, and loftiness of purpose were written there. ...  He turned away, his head sinking upon his breast, and when he spoke the passion, the rancor, the bitterness, were gone from his voice.  It was lower, quivering, almost gentle.

“You sha’n’t. ...  It isn’t necessary.  It isn’t required of you.”

“If it is possible, then it is required of me,” she said.

“No. ...  No. ...”  He sank into a chair and covered his face, and she could hear the hissing of his breath as he fought for self-control.

“If it were you,” she said.  “If you could bring about the things I can—­the good for so many—­would you hesitate?  Is there anything you wouldn’t do to give them what I can give?...  You know there’s not.  You know you could withhold no sacrifice. ...  Then don’t make this one harder for me.  Don’t stand in my way.”

“I hate him,” Dulac said, in a tense whisper.  “If you—­married him and I should meet him—­I couldn’t keep my hands off him. ...  The thought of you—­of him—­I’d kill him. ...”

“You wouldn’t,” she said.  “You’d think of me—­and you’d remember that I love you—­and that I have given you up—­and all the rest, so I could be his wife—­and rule him. ...  And you wouldn’t make it all futile by killing him. ...  Then I’d be helpless.  I’ve got to have him to—­to do the rest.”

She went to him, and stroked his black, waving hair—­so gently.

“Go now, my dear,” she said.  “You’ve got to rise to this with me.  You’ve got to sustain me. ...  Go now. ...  My mind is made up.  I see my way. ...”  Her voice trembled pitifully.  “Oh, I see my way—­and it is hard, hard. ...”

“No,” he cried, struggling to his feet.

“Yes,” she said, softly.  “Good-by. ...  This is our good-by.  I—­oh, my dear, don’t forget—­never forget—­Oh, go, go!”