What she had just said was no more than the
truth: she would have loved to die for him, had he not forfeited her
heart. She would have asked no tears. That she had none to shed for
him now, that she did but share his exhilaration, was the measure of
her worthiness to have the homage of his self-slaughter.
"By the way," she whispered, "I want to ask one little favour of you.
Will you, please, at the last moment to-morrow, call out my name in a
loud voice, so that every one around can hear?"
"Of course I will."
"So that no one shall ever be able to say it wasn't for me that you
died, you know."
"May I use simply your Christian name?"
"Yes, I really don't see why you shouldn't--at such a moment."
"Thank you." His face glowed.
Thus did they commune, these two, radiant without and within. And
behind them, throughout the Hall, the undergraduates craned their
necks for a glimpse. The Duke's piano solo, which was the last item in
the first half of the programme, was eagerly awaited. Already,
whispered first from the lips of Oover and the others who had come on
from the Junta, the news of his resolve had gone from ear to ear among
the men. He, for his part, had forgotten the scene at the Junta, the
baleful effect of his example.
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