Always they had been broken again by some wonderful word, which he had
known would come sooner or later. All great natures are full of silence.
Silence is the soil of all passion. But now it was not silence that was
between them, but terrible speech. As with a knife she had stabbed their
love right in its heart. Yet Antony knew that his love could never die,
but only suffer.

During these days he half turned to Beatrice. How kind was her simple
earth-warm affection, after the star-cold transcendentalism in which he
had been living! How full of comfort was her unselfish humanity, after
the pitiless egoism of the divine!

And yet, while it momentarily soothed him, he realised, with a heart sad
for Beatrice as for himself, that it could never satisfy him again. For
days he left Silencieux alone in the wood, and Beatrice's face
brightened with their renewed companionship; but all the time he seemed
to hear Silencieux calling him, and he knew that he would have to go
back.

One night, almost happy again, as he lay by the side of Beatrice, who
was sleeping deeply, he rose stealthily, and looked out into the wood.

The moonlight fell through it mysteriously, as on that night when he had
stolen up there to meet Silencieux--"at the rising of the moon." He
could hesitate no longer. Leaving Beatrice asleep, he was soon making
his way once more through the moonlit trees.

The little chalet looked very still and solemn, like a temple of
Chaldean mysteries, and an unwonted chill of fear passed through Antony
as he stood in the circle of moonlight outside. His spirit seemed aware
of some dread menace to the future in that moment, and a voice was
crying within him to go back.

But the longing that had brought him so far was too strong for such
undefined warnings. Once more he turned the key in the lock, and looked
on Silencieux once more.

The moonlight fell over her face like a veil of silver, and on her
eyelashes was a glitter of tears.

Her face was alive again, alive too with a softness of womanhood he had
never seen before.

"Forgive me, Antony," she said. "I loved you all the time."

What else need Silencieux say!

"But it was so strange," said Antony after a while, "so strange. I
could have borne the pain, if only I could have understood."

"Shall I tell you the reason, Antony?"

"Yes."

"It was because I saw in your eyes a thought of Beatrice. For a moment
your thoughts had forsaken me and gone to pity Beatric