“Do not grieve; it is a waste of precious time, and do not stir till the end. I want you to know that I did not seek this death. I never dreamed of such a thing. You must tell my father so, and bid him not to mourn for me. It was my intention to leave the church within ten minutes of yourself. This cup is given to me by the hand of Fate. I did not fill it. Do you hear and understand?” “I hear and understand,” answered Morris. “Now you see,” she went on, “that our talk to-day was almost inspired. My web is woven, my picture is painted, and to me Heaven says, ‘Hold.’ The thought that it might be so was in your mind, was it not?” “Yes.” “And I answered your thought, telling you that time is nothing. This I tell you again for your comfort in the days that remain to you of life. Oh! I bless God; I bless God Who has dealt so mercifully to me. Where are now the long years of lonely suffering that I feared—I who stand upon the threshold of the Eternal? . . . I can talk no more, the water is rising in the church—already it is about my knees; but remember every word which I have said to you; remember that we are wed—truly wed, that I go to wait for you, and that even if you do not see me I will, if I may, be near you always—till you die, and afterwards will be with you always—always.” “Stay,” cried Morris. “What have you to say? Be swift, the water rises and the walls are cracking.” “That I love you now and for ever and for ever; that I will remember everything; and that I know beyond a doubt that you have seen, and speak the truth.” “Thank you for those blessed words, and for this life fare you well.” For a moment there was silence, or at least Stella’s voice was silent, while Morris stood over the aerophone, the sweat running from his face, rocking like a drunken man in his agony and waiting for the end. Then suddenly loud, clear, and triumphant, broke upon his ears the sound of that song which he had heard her sing upon the sinking ship when her death seemed near; the ancient song of the Over-Lord. Once more at the last mortal ebb, while the water rose about her breast, Stella’s instincts and blood had asserted themselves, and forgetting aught else, she was dying as her pagan forefathers had died, with the secret ancient chant upon her lips. Yes, she sang as Skarphedinn the hero sang while the flame ate out his life. The song swelled on, and the great waters boomed an accompaniment. Then came a sound of crashing walls, and for a moment it ceased, only to rise again still clearer and more triumphant. Again a crash—a seething hiss—and the instrument was silent, for its twin was shattered. Shattered also was the fair shape that held the spirit of Stella.