"I know, I
know. Moreover, I know that awful resting-place." I was interrupted, cut short in the midst of my sentence, not by any
word, but by the frightened look in her eyes and the fear-mastered way in
which she shrank away from me. I suppose in reality she could not be
paler than she looked when the colour-absorbing moonlight fell on her;
but on the instant all semblance of living seemed to shrink and fall
away, and she looked with eyes of dread as if in I some awful way held in
thrall. But for the movement of the pitiful glance, she would have
seemed of soulless marble, so deadly cold did she look. The moments that dragged themselves out whilst I waited for her to speak
seemed endless. At length her words came in an awed whisper, so faint
that even in that stilly night I could hardly hear it:

"You know--you know my resting-place! How--when was that?" There was
nothing to do now but to speak out the truth:

"I was in the crypt of St. Sava. It was all by accident. I was
exploring all around the Castle, and I went there in my course. I found
the winding stair in the rock behind the screen, and went down. Dear, I
loved you well before that awful moment, but then, even as the lantern
fell tingling on the glass, my love multiplied itself, with pity as a
factor." She was silent for a few seconds. When she spoke, there was a
new tone in her voice:

"But were you not shocked?" "Of course I was," I answered on the spur of the moment, and I now think
wisely. "Shocked is hardly the word. I was horrified beyond anything
that words can convey that you--_you_ should have to so endure! I did
not like to return, for I feared lest my doing so might set some barrier
between us. But in due time I did return on another day." "Well?" Her voice was like sweet music. "I had another shock that time, worse than before, for you were not
there. Then indeed it was that I knew to myself how dear you were--how
dear you are to me. Whilst I live, you--living or dead--shall always be
in my heart." She breathed hard. The elation in her eyes made them
outshine the moonlight, but she said no word. I went on:

"My dear, I had come into the crypt full of courage and hope, though I
knew what dreadful sight should sear my eyes once again. But we little
know what may be in store for us, no matter what we expect. I went out
with a heart like water from that dreadful desolation." "Oh, how you love me, dear!" Cheered by her words, and even more by her
tone, I went on with renewed courage. There was no halting, no faltering
in my intention now:

"You and I, my dear, were ordained for each other. I cannot help it that
you had already suffered before I knew you. It may be that there may be
for you still suffering that I may not prevent, endurance that I may not
shorten; but what a man can do is yours. Not Hell itself will stop me,
if it be possible that I may win through its torments with you in my
arms!" "Will nothing stop you, then?" Her question was breathed as softly as
the strain of an AEolian harp. "Nothing!" I said, and I heard my own teeth snap together. There was
something speaking within me stronger than I had ever known myself to be. Again came a query, trembling, quavering, quivering, as though the issue
was of more than life or death:

"Not this?" She held up a corner of the shroud, and as she saw my face
and realized the answer before I spoke, went on: "With all it implies?" "Not if it were wrought of the cerecloths of the damned!" There was a
long pause. Her voice was more resolute when she spoke again. It rang. Moreover, there was in it a joyous note, as of one who feels new hope:

"But do you know what men say? Some of them, that I am dead and buried;
others, that I am not only dead and buried, but that I am one of those
unhappy beings that may not die the common death of man. Who live on a
fearful life-in-death, whereby they are harmful to all. Those unhappy
Un-dead whom men call Vampires--who live on the blood of the living, and
bring eternal damnation as well as death with the poison of their
dreadful kisses! "I know what men say sometimes," I answered. "But I know also what my
own heart says; and I rather choose to obey its calling than all the
voices of the living or the dead. Come what may, I am pledged to you. If it be that your old life has to be rewon for you out of the very jaws
of Death and Hell, I shall keep the faith I have pledged, and that here I
pledge again!" As I finished speaking I sank on my knees at her feet,
and, putting my arms round her, drew her close to me. Her tears rained
down on my face as she stroked my hair with her soft, strong hand and
whispered to me:

"This is indeed to be one. What more holy marriage can God give to any
of His creatures?" We were both silent for a time. I think I was the first to recover my senses. That I did so was manifest
by my asking her: "When may we meet again?" --a thing I had never
remembered doing at any of our former partings. She answered with a
rising and falling of the voice that was just above a whisper, as soft
and cooing as the voice of a pigeon:

"That will be soon--as soon as I can manage it, be sure. My dear, my
dear!" The last four words of endearment she spoke in a low but
prolonged and piercing tone which made me thrill with delight. "Give me some token," I said, "that I may have always close to me to ease
my aching heart till we meet again, and ever after, for love's sake!" Her mind seemed to leap to understanding, and with a purpose all her own. Stooping for an instant, she tore off with swift, strong fingers a
fragment of her shroud. This, having kissed it, she handed to me,
whispering:

"It is time that we part. You must leave me now. Take this, and keep it
for ever. I shall be less unhappy in my terrible loneliness whilst it
lasts if I know that this my gift, which for good or ill is a part of me
as you know me, is close to you. It may be, my very dear, that some day
you may be glad and even proud of this hour, as I am." She kissed me as
I took it. "For life or death, I care not which, so long as I am with you!" I said,
as I moved off. Descending the Jacob's ladder, I made my way down the
rock-hewn passage. The last thing I saw was the beautiful face of my Lady of the Shroud as
she leaned over the edge of the opening. Her eyes were like glowing
stars as her looks followed me. That look shall never fade from my
memory. After a few agitating moments of thought I half mechanically took my way
down to the garden. Opening the grille, I entered my lonely room, which
looked all the more lonely for the memory of the rapturous moments under
the Flagstaff. I went to bed as one in a dream. There I lay till
sunrise--awake and thinking. BOOK V: A RITUAL AT MIDNIGHT


RUPERT'S JOURNAL--_Continued_. _June_ 20, 1907. The time has gone as quickly as work can effect since I saw my Lady.