“But the dead forget—in that land all things are forgotten. Were you to die I should call to you and you would not answer; and when my time came, I might look for you and never find you.” “How dare you say it? If I die, search, and you shall see. No; do _not_ search, wait. At your death I will be with you.” “Whatever happens in life or death—here or hereafter—swear that you will not forget me, and that you will love me only. Swear it, Stella.” “Come to this altar,” she said, when she had thought a moment, “and give me your hand—so. Now, before my Maker and the Presences who surround us, I marry you, Morris Monk. Not in the flesh—with your flesh I have nothing to do—but in the spirit. I take your soul to mine, I give my soul to yours; yours it was from its birth’s day, yours it is, and when it ceases to be yours, let it perish everlastingly.” “So be it to both of us, for ever and for ever,” he answered. This, then, was their marriage, and as they walked hand in hand away from the ancient altar, which surely had never seen so strange a rite, there returned to Morris an idle fantasy which had entered his mind at this very spot when they landed one morning half-frozen after that night in the open boat. But he said nothing of it; for with the memory came a recollection of certain wandering words which that same day fell from Stella’s lips, words at the thought of which his spirit thrilled and his flesh shuddered. What if she were near it, or he were near it, or both of them? What if this solemn ceremony of marriage mocked, yet made divine, had taken place upon the very threshold of its immortal consummation? She read his thought and answered: “Remember always, far and near, it is the same thing; time is nothing; this oath of ours cannot be touched by time or earthly change.” “I will remember,” he answered. What more did they say? He never could be sure, nor does it matter, for what is written bears its gist. “Go away first,” she said presently; “I promised your father that I would bring no further trouble on you, so we must not be seen together. Go now, for the gale is rising fast and the darkness grows.” “This is hard to bear,” he muttered, setting his teeth. “Are you sure that we shall not meet again in after years?” “Sure. You look your last upon me, on the earthly Stella whom you know and love.” “It must be done,” he said. “It must be done,” she echoed. “Good-bye, husband, till that appointed hour of meeting when I may call you so without shame,” and she held out her hand.