"Ay," spoke up a young man lying on the grass and eagerly watching the spectators. "Ay, a very fitting epitaph." "Where is it?" "Carved on the heart of the monument!" he cried, in a tone of triumph. "On the heart of the monument? Then we cannot see it." "It is not meant to be seen." "How do _you_ know of it?" "I made the monument." "Then tell us what it is." "It cannot be told. It is there only because it is unknown." "Out on you! You play your pranks with the living and the dead." "You will live to regret this day," said a thoughtful bystander. "You have tampered with the memory of the dead." "Why, look you, good people," cried Nicholas, springing up and approaching his beautiful master-work. He rested one hand lovingly against it and glanced around him pale with repressed excitement, as though a long-looked-for moment had at length arrived. "I play no pranks with the living or the dead. Young as I am, I have fashioned many monuments, as this cemetery will testify. But I make no more. This is my last; and as it is the last, so it is the greatest. For I have fashioned it in such love and sorrow for her who lies beneath it as you can never know. If it is beautiful, it is yet an unworthy emblem of that brief and transporting beauty which was hers; and I have planted it here beside her grave, that as a delicate white flower it may exhale the perfume of her memory for centuries to come. "Tell me," he went on, his lips trembling, his voice faltering with the burden of oppressive hope--"tell me, you who behold it now, do you not wed her memory deathlessly to it? To its fair shape, its native and unchanging purity?" "Ay," they interrupted impatiently. "But the epitaph?"