there," I replied. "Anywhere, anywhere with thee, for _I love
thee_."

The murder was out. She heaved a sigh, and her head sank on my shoulder.

"Take care, Toughyarn," said the voice; "be warned ere it be too late."
This was the last time the voice spoke to me. It _was_ too late.

"And do you really love me?" she asked, gazing up into my face, her
large blue eyes filling with tears.

"With all my heart and soul," I replied.

"And are you prepared to give me a proof of your love?"

"Any proof you may desire, my angel," I answered. "What is it?"

"I mean," she said, "would you be ready to make a _very great
sacrifice_?"

"Anything," I replied; "anything for thee."

"Generous mortal!" she exclaimed, and she sobbed aloud.

The sight of beauty in tears always moved me. I was deeply touched at
this outburst of grief on the part of my charmer, and did all I could to
soothe and comfort her. I put my arm round her delicate waist; she
offered no resistance, so, clasping her to my breast, I--I--well,
gentlemen--I kissed her. The lightning played around me; the thunder
crackling, threatened to break the drum of my ear, but I saw nothing, I
heard nothing; I was unconscious of everything around me in that long
loving kiss.

My lips seemed glued to hers. I thought I should never be able to tear
myself away. I felt her heart beat violently against my waistcoat. My
blood tingled in my fingers and toes with the intensity of my passion. I
no longer felt cold, for I bore a fire within.

When I at length removed my lips from hers, with a prodigious smack, she
fell fainting in my arms. It was as if her whole soul had been poured
forth in that one kiss, and there was none left to re-animate the frail
form. I sprinkled some of her native element in her face, and she
recovered.

I petted and caressed her, clasped her again and again to my breast,
while she clung round my neck, confessing her love for me, and begging
me never to desert her. Oh, the rapture of those moments! She vowed that
I was all in all to her, that she had never loved before, and never
should again; that she was mine, body and soul, and that if I ever
ceased to love her, she should die.

She called me her own dear Toughyarn, her hero, her "beau ideal," her
lover, her husband. She said that I was her master, and that she would
be my slave for life.

I vowed that I was unworthy to pick off the seaweed that adhered to her
tail. At the word "tail," she heaved