"Content" has both a positive and
negative meaning or antecedent condition. It implies an absence of
disturbing conditions as well as of wants; also it implies something
positive which has been won or achieved, or which has accrued. In our
state of mind--for though it may be presumption on my part, I am
satisfied that our ideas were mutual--it meant that we had reached an
understanding whence all that might come must be for good. God grant
that it may be so! As we sat silent, looking into each other's eyes, and whilst the stars in
hers were now full of latent fire, perhaps from the reflection of the
flames, she suddenly sprang to her feet, instinctively drawing the
horrible shroud round her as she rose to her full height in a voice full
of lingering emotion, as of one who is acting under spiritual compulsion
rather than personal will, she said in a whisper:

"I must go at once. I feel the morning drawing nigh. I must be in my
place when the light of day comes." She was so earnest that I felt I must not oppose her wish; so I, too,
sprang to my feet and ran towards the window. I pulled the curtain aside
sufficiently far for me to press back the grille and reach the glass
door, the latch of which I opened. I passed behind the curtain again,
and held the edge of it back so that she could go through. For an
instant she stopped as she broke the long silence:

"You are a true gentleman, and my friend. You understand all I wish. Out of the depth of my heart I thank you." She held out her beautiful
high-bred hand. I took it in both mine as I fell on my knees, and raised
it to my lips. Its touch made me quiver. She, too, trembled as she
looked down at me with a glance which seemed to search my very soul. The
stars in her eyes, now that the firelight was no longer on them, had gone
back to their own mysterious silver. Then she drew her hand from mine
very, very gently, as though it would fain linger; and she passed out
behind the curtain with a gentle, sweet, dignified little bow which left
me on my knees. When I heard the glass door pulled-to gently behind her, I rose from my
knees and hurried without the curtain, just in time to watch her pass
down the steps. I wanted to see her as long as I could. The grey of
morning was just beginning to war with the night gloom, and by the faint
uncertain light I could see dimly the white figure flit between shrub and
statue till finally it merged in the far darkness. I stood for a long time on the terrace, sometimes looking into the
darkness in front of me, in case I might be blessed with another glimpse
of her; sometimes with my eyes closed, so that I might recall and hold in
my mind her passage down the steps. For the first time since I had met
her she had thrown back at me a glance as she stepped on the white path
below the terrace. With the glamour over me of that look, which was all
love and enticement, I could have dared all the powers that be. When the grey dawn was becoming apparent through the lightening of the
sky I returned to my room. In a dazed condition--half hypnotized by
love--I went to bed, and in dreams continued to think, all happily, of my
Lady of the Shroud. RUPERT'S JOURNAL--_Continued_. _May_ 27, 1907. A whole week has gone since I saw my Love! There it is; no doubt
whatever is left in my mind about it now! Since I saw her my passion has
grown and grown by leaps and bounds, as novelists put it. It has now
become so vast as to overwhelm me, to wipe out all thought of doubt or
difficulty. I suppose it must be what men suffered--suffering need not
mean pain--under enchantments in old times. I am but as a straw whirled
in the resistless eddies of a whirlpool. I feel that I _must_ see her
again, even if it be but in her tomb in the crypt. I must, I suppose,
prepare myself for the venture, for many things have to be thought of. The visit must not be at night, for in such case I might miss her, did
she come to me again here . . . The morning came and went, but my wish and intention still remained; and
so in the full tide of noon, with the sun in all its fiery force, I set
out for the old church of St. Sava. I carried with me a lantern with
powerful lens. I had wrapped it up secretly, for I had a feeling that I
should not like anyone to know that I had such a thing with me. On this occasion I had no misgivings. On the former visit I had for a
moment been overwhelmed at the unexpected sight of the body of the woman
I thought I loved--I knew it now--lying in her tomb. But now I knew all,
and it was to see this woman, though in her tomb, that I came. When I had lit my lantern, which I did as soon as I had pushed open the
great door, which was once again unlocked, I turned my steps to the steps
of the crypt, which lay behind the richly carven wood screen. This I
could see, with the better light, was a noble piece of work of priceless
beauty and worth. I tried to keep my heart in full courage with thoughts
of my Lady, and of the sweetness and dignity of our last meeting; but,
despite all, it sank down, down, and turned to water as I passed with
uncertain feet down the narrow, tortuous steps. My concern, I am now
convinced, was not for myself, but that she whom I adored should have to
endure such a fearful place. As anodyne to my own pain I thought what it
would be, and how I should feel, when I should have won for her a way out
of that horror, at any rate. This thought reassured me somewhat, and
restored my courage. It was in something of the same fashion which has
hitherto carried me out of tight places as well as into them that at last
I pushed open the low, narrow door at the foot of the rock-hewn staircase
and entered the crypt. Without delay I made my way to the glass-covered tomb set beneath the
hanging chain. I could see by the flashing of the light around me that
my hand which held the lantern trembled. With a great effort I steadied
myself, and raising the lantern, turned its light down into the
sarcophagus. Once again the fallen lantern rang on the tingling glass, and I stood
alone in the darkness, for an instant almost paralyzed with surprised
disappointment. The tomb was empty! Even the trappings of the dead had been removed. I knew not what happened till I found myself groping my way up the
winding stair. Here, in comparison with the solid darkness of the crypt,
it seemed almost light. The dim expanse of the church sent a few
straggling rays down the vaulted steps, and as I could see, be it never
so dimly, I felt I was not in absolute darkness. With the light came a
sense of power and fresh courage, and I groped my way back into the crypt
again. There, by now and again lighting matches, I found my way to the
tomb and recovered my lantern. Then I took my way slowly--for I wished
to prove, if not my own courage, at least such vestiges of self-respect
as the venture had left me--through the church, where I extinguished my
lantern, and out through the great door into the open sunlight.