hat single thought of her. It seemed to him he
could bid his spirit see her, as though he could command his senses
to perceive her. Yes, she was there; he felt-he was conscious of her
presence. Again he lay at her feet, and leaned his head on her knee, and
listened again to those charming revelations of her love.

Completely borne away from the present, and from existence, he saw, he
felt, only her. The mystery of love was perfected, and, under the veil
of night, Geraldine had again winged her way to him, and he to her.

A happy smile played about his lips, which faltered forth rapturous
words of greeting. Overcome by a wonderful hallucination, he saw his
beloved approaching him; he stretched out his arms to clasp her; and it
did not arouse him when he felt instead of her only the empty air.

"Why do you float away from me again, Geraldine?" asked he, in a
low tone. "Wherefore do you withdraw from my arms, to whirl with the
will-o'-the-wisps in the death-dance? Come, Geraldine, come; my soul
burns for you. My heart calls you with its last faltering throb. Come,
Geraldine, oh, come!"

What was that? It was as though the door were gently opened, and the
latch again gently fastened. It was as though a foot were moving softly
over the floor-as though the shape of a human form shaded for a moment
the flickering light which danced around the walls.

Henry Howard saw it not.

He saw naught but his Geraldine, whom he with so much fervency and
longing wished by his side. He spread his arms; he called her with all
the ardor, all the enthusiasm of a lover.

Now he uttered a cry of ecstasy. His prayer of love was answered. The
dream had become a reality. His arms no longer clasped the empty air;
they pressed to his breast the woman whom he loved, and for whom he was
to die.

He pressed his lips to her mouth and she returned his kisses. He threw
his arms around her form, and she pressed him fast, fast to her bosom.

Was this a reality? Or was it madness that was creeping upon him and
seizing upon his brain, and deceiving him with fantasies so enchanting?

Henry Howard shuddered as he thought this, and, falling upon his knees,
he cried in a voice trembling with agony and love: "Geraldine, have pity
on me! Tell me that this is no dream, that I am not mad--that you are
really--you are Geraldine--you--the king's consort, whose knees I now
clasp! Speak, oh speak, my Geraldine!"

"I am she!" softly whispered she. "I am Geraldi