"Is not what you have seen, proof that I speak truth?" Theodora interposed, slightly veiled mockery in her tone. "Then this is your deed," Tristan flashed. Theodora gave a shrug. "What if it were?" "She is in Basil's power?" "An experienced suitor." "Woman, why have you done this thing to me?" His hands went to his head and he reeled like a drunken man. Theodora laid her hands on Tristan's shoulders. "Because I want you--because I love you, Tristan," she said slowly, and her wonderful face seemed to become illumined as it were, from within. "Nay--do not shrink from me! I know what you would say! Theodora--the courtesan queen of Rome! You deem I have no heart--no soul. You deem that these lips, defiled by the kisses of beasts, cannot speak truth. Yet, if I tell you, Tristan, that this is the first and only time in my life that I have loved, that I love you with a love such as only those know who have thirsted for it all their lives, yet have never known but its base counterfeit; if I tell you--that upon your answer depends my fate--my life--Tristan--will you believe--will you save the woman whom nothing else on earth can save?" "I do not believe you," Tristan replied. Theodora's face had grown white to the lips. "You shall stay--and you shall listen to me!" she said, without raising her voice, as if she were discoursing upon some trifling matter, and Tristan obeyed, compelled by the look in her eyes. Theodora felt Tristan's melancholy gaze resting upon her, as it had rested upon her at their first meeting. Was not he, too, like herself, a lone wanderer in this strange country called the world! But his manhood had remained unsullied. How she envied and how she hated that other woman to whom his love belonged. Softly she spoke, as one speaks in a dream. She had gone forth in quest of happiness--happiness at any price. And she had paid the forfeit with a poisoned life. The desire to conquer had eclipsed every other. The lure of the senses was too mighty to be withstood. Yet how short are youth and life! One should snatch its pleasures while one may. How fleet had been the golden empty days of joy. She had drained the brimming goblet to the dregs. If he misjudged her motive, her self-abasement, if he spurned the love she held out to him, the one supreme sacrifice of her life had been in vain. She would fight for it. Soul and body she would throw herself into the conflict. Her last chance of happiness was at stake. The poison, rankling in her veins, she knew could not be expelled by idle sophisms. Life, the despot, claimed his dues. Had she lived utterly in vain? Not altogether! She would atone, even though the bonds of her own forging, which bound her to an ulcered past, could be broken but by the hand of that crowned phantom: Death. Now she was kneeling before him. She had grasped his hands.