They walked through the Piazza; the pigeons amused Paul, and they stopped and bought corn for them, and fed the greedy creatures, ever ready for the unending largess of strangers. One or two, bolder than the rest, alighted on the lady's hat and shoulder, taking the corn from between her red lips, and Paul felt jealous even of the birds, and drew her on to see the Campanile, still standing then. They looked at it all, they looked at the lion, and finally they entered St. Mark's. And here Paul held her arm, and gazed with bated breath. It was all so beautiful and wonderful, and new to his eyes. He had scarcely ever been in a Roman Catholic church before, and had not guessed at the gorgeous beauty of this half-Byzantine shrine. They hardly spoke. She did not weary him with details like a guide-book--that would be for his after-life visits--but now he must see it just as a glorious whole. "They worshipped here, and endowed their temple with gold and jewels," she whispered, "and then they went into the Doge's Palace, and placed a word in the lion's mouth which meant death or destruction to their best friends! A wonderful people, those old Venetians! Sly and fierce--cruel and passionate--but with ever a shrewd smile in their eye, even in their love-affairs. I often ask myself, Paul, if we are not too civilised, we of our time. We think too much of human suffering, and so we cultivate the nerves to suffer more, instead of hardening them. Picture to yourself, in my grandfather's boyhood we had still the serfs! I am of his day, though it is over--I have beaten Dmitry--" Then she stopped speaking abruptly, as though aware she had localised her nation too much. A strange imperious expression came into her eyes as they met Paul's--almost of defiance. Paul was moved. He began as if to speak, then he remembered his promise never to question her, and remained silent. "Yes, my Paul--you have promised, you know," she said. "I am for you, your love--your love--but living or dead you must never seek to know more!" "Ah!" he cried, "you torture me when you speak like that. 'Living or dead.' My God! that means us both--we stand or fall together." "Dear one"--her voice fell softly into a note of intense earnestness--"while fate lets us be together--yes--living or dead--but if we must part, then either would be the cause of the death of the other by further seeking--never forget that, my beloved one. Listen"--her eyes took a sudden fierceness--"once I read your English book, 'The Lady and the Tiger.' You remember it, Paul? She must choose which she would give her lover to--death and the tiger, or to another and more beautiful woman. One was left, you understand, to decide the end one's self. It caused question at the moment; some were for one choice, some for the other--but for me there was never any hesitation. I would give you to a thousand tigers sooner than to another woman--just as I would give my life a thousand times for your life, my lover."