Upon the slope of the Peak it was silent enough. The girl's eyes went out across the shadowy plain below to where the water was shining in its own gray light, but she uttered not a word. The man leant his head upon his hand as he looked up to her face. “What is the 'Ave' you are breathing to the sunset, Miss Gerald?” he said at length, and she gave a little start and looked at him. “What is the vesper hymn your heart has been singing all this time?” She laughed. “No hymn, no song.” “I saw it upon your face,” he said. “I saw its melody in your eyes; and yet--yet I cannot understand it--I am too gross to be able to translate it. I suppose if a man had sensitive hearing the wind upon the blades of grass would make good music to him, but most people are dull to everything but the rolling of barrels and such-like music.” “I had not even a musical thought,” said the girl. “I am afraid that if all I thought were translated into words, the result would be a jumble: you know what that means.” “Yes. Heaven is a jumble, isn't it? A bit of wonderful blue here, and a shapeless cloud there--a few faint breaths of music floating about a place of green, and an odour of a field of flowers. Yes, all dreams are jumbles.” “And I was dreaming?” she said. “Yes, I dare say my confusion of thought without a single idea may be called by courtesy a dream.” “And now have you awakened?” “Dreams must break and dissolve some time, I suppose, Mr. Markham.” “They must, they must,” he said. “I wonder when will my awaking come.” “Have you a dream?” she asked, with a laugh. “I am living one,” he answered. “Living one?” “Living one. My life has become a dream to me. How am I beside you? How is it possible that I could be beside you? Either of two things must be a dream--either my past life is a dream, or I am living one in this life.” “Is there so vast a difference between them?” she asked, looking at him. His eyes were turned away from her. “Vast? Vast?” he repeated musingly. Then he rose to his feet and looked out oceanwards. “I don't know what is vast,” he said. Then he looked down to her. “Miss Gerald, I don't believe that my recollection of my past is in the least correct. My memory is a falsehood utterly. For it is quite impossible that this body of mine--this soul of mine--could have passed through such a change as I must have passed through if my memory has got anything of truth in it. My God! my God! The recollections that come to me are, I know, impossible.” “I don't understand you, Mr. Markham,” said Daireen. Once more he threw himself on the short tawny herbage beside her. “Have you not heard of men being dragged back when they have taken a step beyond the barrier that hangs between life and death--men who have had one foot within the territory of death?” “I have heard of that.”