It was all over then! The seconds had flown. She had come and would now go again, leaving him mayhap a shade more desolate even than before. It was all over, and the darkness of the past months would descend on him once more, only that the darkness would be more dense, more unbearable, because of this one ray of light--caused by her presence here for these few brief moments. Of a truth he had not known until now quite how much he had hoped, during these past months whilst he fought his battle with grim and steady vigour, winning step by step, until that last final decision of the king, which gave him all that he wanted, all that he desired to offer her. Now she was going out of his life--for the second time--and it seemed more irrevocable than that other parting at St. Denis. She was going and there would not remain one single tiny spark of hope to light the darkness of his despair. Nothing would remain, only memory! Memory, on which the tears of Love would henceforth for ever be fed. Her words might ring in his ears, her image dwell in his mind, but his heart would go on starving, starving, athirst for just one tiny remembrance on which to dwell until mercifully it would break at last. "May I not kiss your finger tips once more, Rose Marie?" he pleaded. The words had escaped his lips almost involuntarily. The longing for the tiny remembrance had been too strong to be stilled. A kiss on her finger tips, one crumb of bread to a man dying of hunger, the sponge steeped in water to slake a raging thirst. She turned to him. The tears had dried on her cheeks by now, and her eyes were seared and aching. She looked on his face, but did not lift her hand. Papa Legros, who felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat, busied himself with a careful examination of the door handle. "It will probably be a long farewell," said Michael gently. "Will you not let me hold your hand just once again, my snowdrop? Nay, not mine, but another's--a king now amongst men." Then, as very slowly, and with eyes fixed straight into his own, she raised her hand up to his, he took it, and looked long at each finger tip, tapering and delicately tipped with rose. "See the epicure I am," he said, whilst a quaint smile played round the corners of his lips; "your little hand rests now in mine. I know that I may kiss it, that my lips may linger on each exquisite finger tip, until my poor brain, dizzy with joy, will mayhap totter into the land of madness. I know that I may kiss this cold little hand--so cold! I know that it will chill my lips--and still I wait--for my last joy now is anticipation. Nay, do not draw your hand away, my beautiful ice-maid. Let me hold it just one little brief while longer. Are we not to be friends in the future? Then as a friend may I not hold and kiss your hand?" She could not speak, for sobs which she resolutely suppressed would rise in her throat, but she allowed her hand to rest in his; there was some solace even in this slight touch.