"The chapel--the lights are lit. Lay her on the cushions before the altar. I will be with you again directly." When he returned from his room with lint and bandages she was lying there as he had directed, her long red skirt trailing down the white steps. "The candles, please,--the smaller ones, Akbar,--and place them at her head. They will give me a better light." Vincent shivered again at the sight; she looked already dead, with those tall tapers about her. Ah! what did it all mean? Was he dreaming? How was it possible? The wild improbability of it stunned him; when not three hours ago he had had a sherry-and-bitters before dinner! The curious irrelevance of his thoughts made him feel as if he must wake soon. Yet there she lay. Laila, whom he loved! "Is she--is she--" he began. "Not dead, if you mean that," replied Father Ninian quietly. "But she will not live an hour." There was no mincing matters between these two men--nothing but the brutal truth; yet this time it was the old priest who held up his hand against a passionate outcry. "Don't make a fuss. Be brave, at least, and don't disturb her. She is coming to herself again." To herself certainly. To the old half-amused, half-mysterious smile, as her eyes caught the tapers, the lighted altar beyond, her lover kneeling at her side. "It is the wedding, I suppose," she said--there was a catch in her breath now--"but why have they put the candles like a bier? To save time, I suppose. But it mixes things up; and--" she gave a little impatient sigh--"Oh! tell him to be quick, Romeo, for--for we always meant to be married in the end--didn't we?" The words cut Vincent like a knife. Yes! He had meant it. Not always. Not till, even to one with his past, the perfection of this idyll in the garden would have suffered without that promise to himself. And now, death should not cheat him, should not leave a stain, a regret, on the one perfect romance of his life. He stooped suddenly and kissed her; kissed her with more passion than he had ever kissed her before. "It won't be long, Juliet; he is just going to begin," he whispered, then rose to his feet unsteadily. This at least he could do for himself. And for her? A sob, almost of gratitude, of admiration, came to his eyes as he realized that it would never, never--even if she had lived--have mattered to her really. But it had been a part of the play; part of her as Juliet. So it should be. His wild revolt at the sequence of improbabilities--for after all that idyll in the garden had been, bar its environments, commonplace enough--which had landed him in--_in an Adelphi drama!_--(he could not help the thought, though he despised it)--should give way to this. The play should end with a wedding. Juliet should have the '_statue of pure gold_' in the eyes of the world. He could ensure this by a word; and the word should be spoken. He touched Father Ninian peremptorily on the shoulder, as he bent, busy with his instruments.