Laying his hand upon her shoulders, he looks steadily into her eyes; and then, after a long pause-- "There should be proof," he says, sadly. And she says, "Yes, there should be proof," in a tone from which all feeling, and hope, and happiness have fled. And yet the world grows brighter. The early morn springs forth and glads the air. "But, nor Orient morn, Nor fragrant zephyr, nor Arabian climes, Nor gilded ceilings can relieve the soul Pining in thraldom." A long pause follows her sentence, that to him has savored of death. Then he speaks: "Let me raise your gown," he says, with heart-broken gentleness, "the dew of morning is on the grass." He lifts her train as he says this, and lays it across the bare and lovely arm that had been his for some blessed minutes. As he sees it, and remembers everything--all that _might_ have been, and all that _has_ been, and all that _is_--a dry sob chokes his voice and, stooping, he presses his lips passionately to her smooth, cool flesh. At this she bursts into bitter weeping; and, letting her glimmering white gown fall once again in its straight, cold folds around her, gives way to uncontrollable sorrow. "Must there be grief for you, too, my own sweetheart?" says Fabian; and then he lays his arms around her and draws her to him, and holds her close to his heart until her sobs die away through pure exhaustion. But he never bends his head to hers, or seeks to press his lips to those--that are sweet and dear beyond expression--but that never can be his. Even at this supreme moment he strives to spare her a passing pang. "Were she to kiss me now," he tells himself, "out of the depths of her heart, when the cold, passionless morning came to her she would regret it," and so he refrains from the embrace he would have sold his best to gain. "I wish there might be death, _soon_," says Portia, and then she looks upon the awakening land so full of beauty, and growing light, and promise of all good. The great sun, climbing up aloft, strikes upon her gaze, and the swaying trees, and the music of all things that live comes to her ears, and with them all comes, too, a terrible sense of desolation that overwhelms her. "How can the world be so fair?" she says. "How can it smile, and grow, and brighten into life, when there is no life--for--" She breaks down. "For us?" he finishes for her, slowly; and there is great joy in the blending of her name with his. "Yes, I know; it is what you would have said. Forgive me, my best beloved; but I am glad in the thought that we grieve together." His tone is full of sadness; a sadness without hope. They are standing hand in hand, and are looking into each other's eyes. "It is for the last time," she says, in a broken voice. And he says: "Yes, for the very last time." He never tries to combat her resolution--to slay the foe that is desolating his life and hers. He submits to cruel fate without a murmur.