"Men on their death-beds make strange confessions, madame; here is mine. For fifteen years I have asked and expected little of life save to win a name in my profession, and for the rest, to enjoy to the full all the pleasures that the world had to offer. I deemed that I had succeeded fairly in both these, my ambitions, and I was content. But—two months since, on a certain sweet night in July, I met a woman. Not such an one as the courtesans of Whitehall, not such as are they whom a soldier most often meets in his way thro’ the world, but such a woman as a man might dream his mother was, such as he would wish to be the mother of his sons. And when I looked into that woman’s eyes I understood for the first time that all I have sought and won from life was worthless, and tho’ I have drunk deep of the cup of pleasure, yet all my days I have been but as a child playing contentedly in the desert, while the door of an enchanted garden lay unnoticed at my side." "Were the woman’s eyes indeed so beautiful?" asked Barbara softly. "Madame, they are as the clear depths of the heavens, wherein a man may read all the perfection of life. I have seen her but thrice since first we met, yet one look into her eyes has taught me more of the reality of life, of happiness, of love than I ever dreamed of even in the age of a man’s most golden hopes. And so, madame, I cannot die without one regret, the regret that I may not live to deserve the pressure of that woman’s hand, nor hope to make myself worthy to feel the touch of her pure lips." He paused, looking down upon her doubtfully; she did not meet his glance, but he heard her sigh softly, as she gazed before her into the darkness. At length she spoke. "Then you had been happier had you never seen the woman? Is it not so?" "Happier! No, Mistress Barbara, is it not better for a man to die, having gazed once upon the glories of the heavens, than to live a thousand thousand years, nor lift his eyes from earth?" There was silence between them. Then Barbara rose from her seat. "I am weary," she said softly. "I think I could sleep now, and I would fain be rested for to-morrow. I must be strong then; they shall not think I fear them. I must rest. But not in there," she added, gazing shudderingly at the dark corner behind the screen. "Not in there, lest I wake." Near them lay a pile of straw and loose wisps of wool. These he gathered together, and spread his cloak upon them. "It is not much," he muttered discontentedly; "yet it is better than the bare boards." "It is perfect," answered Barbara, snuggling down into the warmth of the cloak. He knelt to draw it more closely round her. "Good-bye, Mistress Barbara," he said, raising her hand to his lips. But she, suddenly raising herself upon her elbow, drew his head down towards her and kissed him on the lips. "Good-night—good-bye—and thank you," she whispered simply. Then she lay down peacefully, and drew the cloak once more around her.