rrow--she must
wait. At least she did so at first, though in the end when she bared her
heart at the moment of our farewell, she vowed she loved him only and
was "appointed" to him "by a divine decree."

Also I found other things of which I knew nothing, such as the Fire of
Life with its fatal gift of indefinite existence, although I remember
that like the giant Rezu whom Umslopogaas defeated, she did talk of a
"Cup of Life" of which she had drunk, that might have been offered to my
lips, had I been politic, bowed the knee and shown more faith in her and
her supernatural pretensions.

Lastly I saw the story of her end, and as I read it I wept, yes, I
confess I wept, although I feel sure that she will return again. Now I
understood why she had quailed and even seemed to shrivel when, in my
last interview with her, stung beyond endurance by her witcheries and
sarcasms, I had suggested that even for her with all her powers, Fate
might reserve one of its shrewdest blows. Some prescience had told her
that if the words seemed random, Truth spoke through my lips, although,
and this was the worst of it, she did not know what weapon would deal
the stroke or when and where it was doomed to fall.

I was amazed, I was overcome, but as I closed that book I made up my
mind, first that I would continue to preserve absolute silence as to
Ayesha and my dealings with her, as, during my life, I was bound by
oath to do, and secondly that I would _not_ cause my manuscript to be
destroyed. I did not feel that I had any right to do so in view of what
already had been published to the world. There let it lie to appear one
day, or not to appear, as might be fated. Meanwhile my lips were sealed.
I would give Good back his book without comment and--buy another copy!

One more word. It is clear that I did not touch more than the fringe
of the real Ayesha. In a thousand ways she bewitched and deceived me so
that I never plumbed her nature's depths. Perhaps this was my own fault
because from the first I shewed a lack of faith in her and she wished to
pay me back in her own fashion, or perhaps she had other private reasons
for her secrecy. Certainly the character she discovered to me differed
in many ways from that which she revealed to Mr. Holly and to Leo
Vincey, or Kallikrates, whom, it seems, once she slew in her jealousy
and rage.

She told me as much as she thought it fit that I should know, and no
more!

Allan Quatermain.

The Grange,