do that matters now?"

Her voice faltered; she lowered her hands to stroke the hair from his
pale forehead. She sat upon the sands and drew his heavy head to her
knees, and her voice sank to the crooning of a woman with her man-child
that is dead.

"I am too late--too late--too late! In mine ears was the wailing of the
women in empty houses--how knew I that my voice must cry among them? My
love, that liest so quiet at my knee, thou art gone very far from me,
and all my tears and pleading may not call thee back. O pale lips sealed
forever, all thy magic dumb within thee, give me of thy power that I may
mourn my love! O wandering feet that have strayed in lands of bright
enchantment, thou walkest in the dim paths of the twilight places, and
I would that my feet might follow! O strong hands that have wrought the
work of men, why dost thou not answer to the clinging of my fingers? O
heart that camest through bitter waters, was it good to rest? I and old
Sorrow walk hand in hand; for the red flower of my lover's life which is
withered here, we shall cover him with lilies. The young men and the
maidens shall walk softly; the old shall mourn him saying 'Eheu! it is
not well for the young to go before us.' And I--what is there that I may
say? Dead--dead--dead--and my heart is breaking--Ah! bitter woe is mine!
O ye Elder Gods, would ye have been more kind than the One who hath torn
him from me?"

She bent over him so that her tears fell warm upon his face and the veil
of her hair shrouded him; she kissed his lips as though she would
breathe her own life into him.

"This my bridal kiss I give thee, O Nicanor, O my dear!--here on thy
mouth, and thou canst never know--God have pity!--thou canst never know!
Thy lips are cold--so cold--thou art all cold, and even my bosom may not
warm thee. My love, who didst die with a flower in thy hair and a smile
upon thy lips, why is thy face so bright with triumph? Peace lieth upon
thee as a garment.... O Nicanor, Nicanor, give me of thy peace!"

There fell a voice upon her weeping:

"My daughter, what dost thou here?"

Thin-faced Father Ambrose stood before her, very gentle, very old, from
Saint Peter's Church within the wall. On his arm he bore a basket filled
with simple dressings; his brown frock, up-kilted, was stained with
blood and mire. Perhaps all night he had done his work of mercy among
the dying and the dead.

"I have found him!" said Eldris. She swept back her hair with o