Weeks afterward, when we were on the deck of the steamer that was
taking us to my own country, as we stood together, overlooking a
moonlit sea, she reached up, and with one of her soft, fair hands,
turned my face towards hers with a gesture that was characteristic; and
I loved it.
"Dubravnik," she said--she still insists that she will always address
me so, because it is the name by which she first knew me--"I do not
know myself, any more. I am not the same woman who was once so
vengeful. Love has taught me how to forgive. Love has made me over
again. I am no longer the same Zara."
"No," I said lightly, "for now you are Zara Derrington."
"Tell me," she asked, after another interval of gazing across the
waters, "shall we see Alexis Saberevski, over there, where your home
is?"
I did not answer the question, for upon the instant she mentioned the
name of my friend, it recalled to me the circumstance of my last
parting with him. I remembered the sealed envelope he had given me, and
the instructions that came with it. I had forgotten it entirely, until
that moment; but now, without replying to her question, I drew the
missive from my pocket and broke the seal.
What I read there seems wonderfully prophetic to me, even now, and I
read it over a second time, in my amazement. Then I gave it to Zara.
"Read," I said, "for there is the answer to your question."
And this is the letter Zara read aloud to me, while we two leaned
against the rail of the vessel that was bearing us to our home across
the sea. The man in the moon was looking down, and smiling upon our
happiness, and shedding sufficient light for my sweetheart-wife to see
Saberevski's written words. They were:-
Derrington, these written words are to make you and Zara de
Echeveria known to each other. Months will pass, and many of them
may do so, before you will read what is written here; and it may
be, it likely will be, that you are standing side by side when you
break the seal of the last communication, written or oral, which I
shall probably ever submit to you. For our paths, henceforth, will
lead us widely apart, Derrington. You are a free agent, the arbiter
of your own destiny; I am one who can take no initiative regarding
the paths I must tread. But this letter is not to speak of myself,
but is to tell you about her, if, perchance, when you read these
words, you have never met.