imson ray
from the far East.

Below, the ocean is at rest--wrapt in sullen sleep. "The singing of the
soft blue waves is hushed, or heard no more." And no sound comes to
disturb the unearthly solemnity of the hour. Only a little breeze comes
from the south, soft and gentle, and full of tenderest love that is as
the

"Kiss of morn, waking the lands."

He stirs! His eyes open. He turns restlessly, and then a waking dream is
his. But is it a dream? He is looking into Portia's eyes, and she--she
does not turn from him, but in a calm, curious fashion returns his gaze,
as one might to whom hope and passion are as things forgotten.

No word escapes him. He does not even change his position, but lies,
looking up at her in silent wonder. Presently he lifts his hand, and
slowly covers it with one of hers lying on the grass near his head.

She does not draw it away--everything seems forgotten--there is only for
her at this moment the pale dawn, and the sweet calm, and the solitude
and the love so fraught with pain that overfills her soul!

He draws her hand nearer to him--still nearer--until her bare soft arm
(chilled by the early day) is lying upon his lips. There he lets it
rest, as though he would fain drink into his thirsty heart all the
tender sweetness of it.

And _yet_ she says nothing, only sits silent there beside him, her other
arm resting on her knees, and her eyes fixed immovably on his.

Oh! the rapture and the agony of the moment--a rapture that will never
come again, an agony that must be theirs for ever.

"My life! my love!" he murmurs at last, the words passing his lips as if
they were one faint sigh, but yet not so faint but she may hear them.

She sighs, too; and a smile, fine and delicate, parts her lips, and into
her eyes comes a strange fond gleam, born of passion and nearness and
the sweetness of loving and living.

The day is deepening. More rosy grows the sky, more fragrant the early
breeze. Her love is at her feet, her arm upon his lips; and on the fair
naked arm his breath is coming and going quickly, unevenly--the feel of
it makes glad her very soul!

Then comes the struggle. Oh! the sweetness, the perfectness of life if
spent alone with the beloved. To sacrifice all things--to go away to
some far distant spot with _him_--to know each opening hour will be
their very own: they two, with all the world forgotten and well
lost--what bliss could equal it?

Her arm trembles in his em