As the gas bag disintegrated, bits of burning embers became detached and dropped like spent rockets to the waves. John Cabot, left alone on the deck, stood ready for the end. The while, his last utterance, demanded by her who had inspired him, was given to the vast throng through the annunciators connected with the master telephonograph. Deep, strong, triumphant, its first syllable silenced the orchestral Song of the Sea. A cry of victory, it shamed demon laughter and tortured the souls of the lost with regrets over the god-great powers they might have come to wield had they but won their fights. A requiem that rang through the crusts of two worlds was its single word: “_Dolores!_” Exactly how she made her descent from the royal box and reached the edge of the pool, the girl-shade never knew. The sound of John’s voice had moved her with but one wish--to join him. He had, then, heard her cry--had answered her! So near he seemed to her that she could not endure to be so far from him. Aspen-eager, she leaned far over the edge of the great bowl that held the mercury. But all she saw was the reflection of her own face. The dirigible must have gone sputtering into the sea while she was making her descent. Her lover must have met his mortal fate. The pool had finished its story. So compelling had been the realism of its reflected scenes that she still was controlled by the emotion they had aroused. She felt lured almost beyond the strength of her intelligence to throw herself into the brilliant depths--to be clasped as she might have been in that realer sea in beloved arms. So low she bent that her whisper rippled the surface. “John ... _John_.” A satirical voice, even more than the clutch of withered, hands drew her back to the now of Gehenna. The minister had followed her and was blinking at her, a trace of responsibility mapped on the parchment of his face. “Another second and Sin himself couldn’t have saved you to Hell,” he exclaimed. “Don’t you know that this swimming pool is bottomless? Are you trying to hang one of those griefs of yours on me?” His reproach was a revelation to the girl. Even Old Original! Never, perhaps, had she felt more puzzled to meet overture of male. But she was spared reply. The aggressiveness slackened from his form. A look of craft wiped the reproach from his face. He stepped behind her. Explanation came in the approach of The Tempter. His spirit, then, had returned from its projection to Earth to the shell of him left in the box. Impulsively she hurried to meet him. She had no consideration to spare for his chagrin over having failed in his personal attempt. Too exalted in pride was she to give thought to the effect on him of pride’s fall. Forward she stretched both hands, as if for the congratulation of a friend. “That favor I asked of you--I’ve granted it myself!” she exclaimed. “There is no need for me to go to him. He will come now to me.”