“And I,” commanded the woman, with wondrous dignity, “pronounce against such base-born cowardice. You build your grief up mountain high, and then make oath you stand alone.” “I will not argue this thing with you. I am determined on my course.” “Unhappy man,” she said, with mighty pity, “do you think you bear all the agony of this dream? I, too, am full of sorrow as deep and black as night.” “Then all the more reason,” said he, desperately, “that we should end it all together.” “Agreed,” said Ouida, and as she spoke, she handed him a jeweled dagger. “Waste no time,” she urged. “Plunge this deep into my heart, then draw it forth and join me in eternity.” He quickly seized the proffered weapon, raised it high in the air, and was about to sink it into her bared breast, when they heard Paul’s footsteps approaching. The dagger dropped from his nerveless hand. He covered his face with his hand, exclaiming: “Shame upon me, that I, in unmanly weakness, should have entertained so hideous a resolve!” “Quick,” said Ouida, “to the inner chamber, and there remain until I can let you out unseen.” He got out not a moment too soon, for upon the very instant of his disappearance, Paul entered the chamber of the bride. “Come, Ouida,” he said, “let me fold you to my breast, for tonight you have enthroned me in the kingdom of love.” “I have fulfilled my oath, that is all,” said Ouida, wearily, and not responsive to his enthusiasm and passion. He threw upon her a questioning glance. “How changed you are,” said he. “It seems but an hour agone to me, when you, with the very ecstasy of passion, awoke the slumbering fires within me. Tonight, when you should greet me with a smile of joy, you seem a block of ice, whose coldness chills me with the grip of death.” “Do not upbraid me,” she pleaded. “I shall strive, with all my might, to be faithful, grateful for your fidelity and love.” “Oh, I see it all now,” cried Paul, delight and hope again springing up in his simple soul. “You think I am low and base-born, a pauper, and you despise yourself for having lifted me to the high plane you occupy.” She was about to speak, but he gave her no chance to break the current of words which flowed from his lips. “Oh, do not speak; hear me out. The very day you made of me a God, because you said you loved me, it was made known to me that I was of gentle birth, rich beyond all imagination. I am not the dog, the pauper, the base-born wretch, but am equal in birth, in wealth and power, to any man who might aspire to honorable marriage with you.” He paused, breathlessly, expecting Ouida to melt in delightful surprise at their good fortune. But no such thing happened. In his intensity, he did not observe her gathering anger. When he finished his story, she said: “So, sir, you knew all this the very day I spoke to you?” “Yes, but would not then have told it to you to save a tottering throne.”