. And perhaps I wished to spare
myself. I think I did. I am sure I did. I am sure that was partly my
reason. I was secretly ashamed of my cowardice, my weakness in Africa;
and when I knew--no, when I guessed, for it was only that--what my
appeal to you had caused--all it had caused--"

He paused. He was thinking of Maurice's death, which must have been a
murder, which he was certain had been a murder.

"I hadn't--"

But the compelling voice from the darkness interrupted him.

"All?" it said.

He hesitated. Had she read his mind again?

"All?"

"The misery," he answered, slowly. "The sorrow that has lain upon your
life ever since."

"Did you mean that? Did you only mean that?"

"No."

"What did you mean?"

"I was thinking of his death," he replied.

He spoke very quietly. He was resolved to have no more subterfuges,
whatever the coward or the tender friend, or--the something else that
was more than the tender friend within him might prompt him to try to
hide.

"I was thinking of his death."

"His death!"

Artois felt cold with apprehension, but he was determined to be sincere.

"I don't understand."

"Don't ask me any more, Hermione. I know nothing more."

"He was coming from the island. He slipped and fell into the sea."

"He fell into the sea."

There was a long silence between them, filled by the perpetual striving
of the restless waves within the chambers of the palace. Then she said:

"Her father was on the island that night?"

"I think he was."

"Was it that? Was it that? Did Maurice make that atonement?"

Artois shuddered. Her voice was so strange, or sounded so strange in the
dark. Did she wish to think, wish to be sure that her husband had been
murdered? He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She had moved. Was she
coming nearer? He heard her breathing, or thought he heard it. He longed
to be certain. He longed to still the perpetual cry of the baffled sea.

"Then he was brave--at the last. I think he knew--I am sure he
knew--when he went down to the sea. I am sure he knew--when he said
good-bye."

Her voice was nearer to him. And again it had changed, utterly changed.
And in the different sounds of her voice Artois seemed to see the
different women who dwelt within her, to understand and to know them as
he had never understood and known them before. This woman was pleading,
as women will plead for a man they have once loved, so long as they have
voices, so long as they have