rving stairway. Together we reached the
library. Then, motioning de Lacy behind me, I swung open the door.

The room was brightly illuminated, although not one of the candles had
been lit. In the middle of it stood Wrexler, with Helene in his arms.
Their lips were close-locked.

It was a picture that an artist would have delighted to paint: the
stiff, crimson skirts of Helene d'Harcourt's gown stood wide on either
side, and Wrexler's blue doublet and hose against them was in bold
relief. His long over-sleeves edged with fur hung gracefully.

I could not speak. This mating of man with ghost was almost more than my
poor mortal brain could bear, yet with every atom of my being I wished
that I could have been in Wrexler's place. I remembered the one chaste
kiss I had had from her, and I almost fainted at the thought of
possessing those lips for my own, as Wrexler was doing. Strangely
enough, mingling with this emotion was another--a feeling of fear and
anxiety for my friend. Cold horror that froze my blood kept me rooted to
the spot.

Behind me de Lacy had fallen to his knees. I could hear him repeating
the Latin words of a prayer. All at once I saw where the light was
coming from. The entire north wall, ordinarily lined with books, had
gone. In its stead was a stone wall, and in the center of the wall was a
low-hung Gothic door, carved and ornate. It was standing open, and
beyond was a pale, luminous yellow mist. I could see nothing of what
else was beyond the door, for the yellow haze filled the entire space.
It was like a golden fog, and its radiance lighted the library with a
strange, unearthly glow. Its luminosity glowed upon Helene and Wrexler
like a spotlight.

For a moment I thought Rougemont, de Lacy, everything of the past weeks,
must have been a dream and that I was watching a cinema of past days.
All at once, before my astonished eyes Helene gently drew her lips away
from Wrexler's. She slipped from his arms and extended her hands to him.
"Come," I heard her say.

Wrexler had been right: her voice was like golden honey. It was like the
music of willow trees in early spring. Wrexler grasped her hands. For
the first time I saw his face. Joy transfigured it, such joy as I have
never seen before, and never shall see again.

Helene moved backward, slowly but surely, drawing him toward the little
Gothic door that stood open. With her soft lips half parted, she
whispered, "Come."

"Wrexler," I cried suddenly.