ith me. You came. I saw it all at once. I have
known it--dreaded it--tried to fight against it. But it was of no use.
Oh, Atam-or, our love means death; for the very fact that you love me
and I love you seals our doom!"

"Our doom? What doom?"

"The sacrifice!" exclaimed Almah, with another shudder. In her voice
and look there was a terrible meaning, which I could not fail to take.
I understood it now, and my blood curdled in my veins. Almah clung to
me despairingly.

"Do not leave me!" she cried--"do not leave me! I have no one but you.
The sacrifice, the sacrifice! It is our doom the great sacrifice--at
the end of the dark season. It is at the amir. We must go there to
meet our doom."

"The amir?" I asked; "what is that?"

"It is the metropolis," said she.

I was utterly overwhelmed, yet still I tried to console her; but the
attempt was vain.

"Oh!" she cried, "you will not understand. The sacrifice is but a
part--it is but the beginning. Death is terrible; yet it may be
endured--if there is only death. But oh!--oh think!--think of that
which comes after--the Mista Kosek!"

Now the full meaning flashed upon me, and I saw it all. In an instant
there arose in my mind the awful sacrifice on the pyramid and the
unutterable horror of the Mista Kosek. Oh, horror, horror,
horror! Oh, hideous abomination and deed without a name! I could not
speak. I caught her in my arms, and we both wept passionately.

The happiness of our love was now darkened by this tremendous cloud
that lowered before us. The shock of this discovery was overpowering,
and some time elapsed before I could rally from it. Though Almah's
love was sweet beyond expression, and though as the time passed I
saw that every jom she regained more and more of her former
health and strength, still I could not forget what had been revealed.
We were happy with one another, yet our happiness was clouded, and
amid the brightness of our love there was ever present the dread
spectre of our appalling doom.

These feelings, however, grew fainter. Hope is ever ready to arise;
and I began to think that these people, though given to evil ways,
were after all kind-hearted, and might listen to entreaty. Above all,
there was the Kohen, so benevolent, so self-denying, so amiable, so
sympathetic. I could not forget all that he had said during Almah's
illness, and it seemed more than probable that an appeal to his better
nature might not be without effect. I said as much