the glamorous moonlight with a commanding dignity
which seemed more than human. In that mystic light her white shroud
seemed diaphanous, and she appeared like a spirit of power. What was I
to say? How could I admit to such a being that I had actually had at
moments, if not a belief, a passing doubt? It was a conviction with me
that if I spoke wrongly I should lose her for ever. I was in a desperate
strait. In such a case there is but one solid ground which one may rest
on--the Truth.

I really felt I was between the devil and the deep sea. There was no
avoiding the issue, and so, out of this all-embracing, all-compelling
conviction of truth, I spoke.

For a fleeting moment I felt that my tone was truculent, and almost
hesitated; but as I saw no anger or indignation on my Lady's face, but
rather an eager approval, I was reassured. A woman, after all, is glad
to see a man strong, for all belief in him must be based on that.

"I shall speak the truth. Remember that I have no wish to hurt your
feelings, but as you conjure me by my honour, you must forgive me if I
pain. It is true that I had at first--ay, and later, when I came to
think matters over after you had gone, when reason came to the aid of
impression--a passing belief that you are a Vampire. How can I fail to
have, even now, though I love you with all my soul, though I have held
you in my arms and kissed you on the mouth, a doubt, when all the
evidences seem to point to one thing? Remember that I have only seen you
at night, except that bitter moment when, in the broad noonday of the
upper world, I saw you, clad as ever in a shroud, lying seemingly dead in
a tomb in the crypt of St. Sava's Church . . . But let that pass. Such
belief as I have is all in you. Be you woman or Vampire, it is all the
same to me. It is _you_ whom I love! Should it be that you are--you are
not woman, which I cannot believe, then it will be my glory to break your
fetters, to open your prison, and set you free. To that I consecrate my
life." For a few seconds I stood silent, vibrating with the passion
which had been awakened in me. She had by now lost the measure of her
haughty isolation, and had softened into womanhood again. It was really
like a realization of the old theme of Pygmalion's statue. It was with
rather a pleading than a commanding voice that she said:

"And shall you always be true to me?"

"Always--so help me, God!" I answered, and I felt that there