my eyes, and let me gaze on yours, and listen how these things
shall be. The world is but a mockery, and a shadow is our flesh, for
where once they were there shall be naught. Only Love is real; Love
shall endure till all the suns are dead, and yet be young.

Kiss me, thou Conqueror, for Destiny is overcome, Sorrow is gone by; and
the flame that we have hallowed upon this earthly altar shall still burn
brightly, and yet more bright, when yonder stars have lost their fire.

But alas! words cannot give a fitting form to such a song as this. Let
music try! But music also folds her wings. For in so supreme an hour

"A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,"

and through that opened door come sights and sounds such as cannot be
written.

They tell us it is madness, that this unearthly glory is but the frenzy
of a passion gross in its very essence. Let those think it who will, but
to dreamers let them leave their dreams. Why then, at such a time, do
visions come to children of the world like Beatrice and Geoffrey? Why do
their doubts vanish, and what is that breath from heaven which they seem
to feel upon their brow? The intoxication of earthly love born of the
meeting of youth and beauty. So be it! Slave, bring more such wine and
let us drink--to Immortality and to those dear eyes that mirror forth a
spirit's face!

Such loves indeed are few. For they must be real and deep, and natures
thus shaped are rare, nor do they often cross each other's line of life.
Yes, there are few who can be borne so high, and none can breathe
that ether long. Soon the wings which Love lent them in his hour of
revelation will shrink and vanish, and the borrowers will fall back to
the level of this world, happy if they escape uncrushed. Perchance
even in their life-days, they may find these spirit wings again,
overshadowing the altar of their vows in the hour of earthly marriage,
if by some happy fate, marriage should be within their reach, or like
the holy pinions of the goddess Nout, folded about a coffin, in the time
of earthly death. But scant are the occasions, and few there are who
know them.

Thus soared Beatrice and Geoffrey while the wild night beat around them,
making a fit accompaniment to their stormy loves. And thus they too fell
from heaven to earth.

"We must be going, Geoffrey; it grows late," said Beatrice. "Oh,
Geoffrey, Geoffrey, what have we done? What can be the end of all this?
It will bring trouble on yo