me woman?

Who could tell? At least this was sure, from the moment that first we
saw one another we knew we belonged each to each for the present and
the future. Therefore, as it was with these we had to do, the past might
sleep and all its secrets.

Now we had met but to be parted again by death, which seemed hard
indeed. Yet since we _had_ met, for my part Fate had my forgiveness for
I knew that we should meet again. I looked back on what I had done and
left undone, and could not blame myself overmuch. True, it would have
been wiser if I had stayed by Irene and Heliodore, and not led that
charge against the Greeks. Only then, as a soldier, I should never have
forgiven myself, for how could I stand still while my comrades fought
for me? No, no, I was glad I had led the charge and led it well, though
my life must pay its price. Nor was this so. I must die, not because
I had lifted sword against Irene's troops, but for the sin of loving
Heliodore.

After all, what was life as we knew it? A passing breath! Well, as the
body breathes many million times between the cradle and the grave, so I
believed the soul must breathe out its countless lives, each ending in a
form of death. And beyond these, what? I did not know, yet my new-found
faith gave me much comfort.

In such meditations and in sleep I passed my hours, waiting always until
the door of my cell should open and through it appear, not the jailer
with my food, which I noted was plentiful and delicate, but the
executioners or mayhap the tormentors.

At length it did open, somewhat late at night, just as I was about to
lay myself down to rest, and through it came a veiled woman. I bowed and
motioned to my visitor to be seated on the stool that was in the cell,
then waited in silence. Presently she threw off her veil, and in the
light of the lamp showed that I stood before the Empress Irene.

"Olaf," she said hoarsely, "I am come here to save you from yourself, if
it may be so. I was hidden in yonder Court, and heard all that passed at
your trial."

"I guessed as much, Augusta," I said, "but what of it?"

"For one thing, this: The coward and fool, who now is dead--of his
wounds--who gave evidence as to the killing of the three other cowards
by you, has caused my name to become a mock throughout Constantinople.
Aye, the vilest make songs upon me in the streets, such songs as I
cannot repeat."

"I am grieved, Augusta," I said.

"It is I who should grieve, not