“Your magnetic eloquence,” said the woman, “moves me beyond expression. We cannot longer live together. Your agony each day kills me a million times. Mine utterly unnerves you. Whatever course you deem best I’ll share without a sob or tear.” “Then, since you are content, let us die together!” “I assent,” said Ouida, almost with joy. “No vulgar death of violence,” said her lover. “I could not stab you with a knife, for the sight of your red, spurting blood, would rob me of the strength to do the deed upon myself. To blow your brains out with a pistol would be brutish. But see, here is a poison. This, in a small quantity of water, will provide enough to send our souls hence into the other world. Shall I prepare the drink?” “Yes, and without delay. The morning sun shall shed its earliest rays upon our soulless dust.” And Horatio Nugent, upon whose eloquence once hung breathless, countless thousands, mixed the drink, with firm hand, that would self-murder two human lives. When ready, said he: “The fatal distillation is ready for the taking. Farewell, my queen! Would to God I had never crossed your life and dragged you to the dust!” He held ready the glass almost to his lips. “And you, my king, farewell! Let me drink first. I would not look upon your rigid limbs, environed in the grip of death.” “Have your wish,” he said, “here is the cup.” She raised the small vessel to her lips, and was about to quaff its fatal contents, when Edward Salmon, the lawyer, broke into the room, and quickly seizing the horror of the situation, struck the cup from her hand, and it fell with a crash upon the floor. “Thank God!” exclaimed the lawyer, “in time to save you both.” “Sir,” said Horatio, “may we not be permitted to die in peace?” “You know not,” said Ouida, “the grief you have prolonged.” “You told me yesterday to sell ‘The Modern Hercules,’” said Salmon, breathlessly. “I have found a purchaser.” “Then sell it,” said Ouida, “and dig our graves in decency.” “Sell it rather,” said Salmon, in deepest sympathy, “and with the proceeds begin life anew.” “Our lives have run their course. We can no longer hold up beneath the world’s black frown,” said Horatio. “That is the talk of the moral coward,” said Salmon, boldly. “Come, I know your story. Draw out your strength, your manhood. Fate brought me here in time. You both shall live to look upon this hour with shame.” “He is right,” said Ouida, arousing herself with mighty effort. “Look up, my love, we may yet wring from fortune’s grasp a noble fate. Where is the purchaser?” “He awaits without. Would see the work, pay the price and go.” “Let him come,” said Ouida. Salmon retired for a moment, and when he returned, brought with him--Paul Strogoff, the sinned against! He only said: “I come not in anger, nor in vengeance; only in sorrow, to crave your pardon, that I live.” “Would that I had died ere this,” said Ouida. Horatio bowed his head in shame and humiliation. CHAPTER XXV.