And _yet_ she says nothing, only sits silent there beside him, her other arm resting on her knees, and her eyes fixed immovably on his. Oh! the rapture and the agony of the moment--a rapture that will never come again, an agony that must be theirs for ever. "My life! my love!" he murmurs at last, the words passing his lips as if they were one faint sigh, but yet not so faint but she may hear them. She sighs, too; and a smile, fine and delicate, parts her lips, and into her eyes comes a strange fond gleam, born of passion and nearness and the sweetness of loving and living. The day is deepening. More rosy grows the sky, more fragrant the early breeze. Her love is at her feet, her arm upon his lips; and on the fair naked arm his breath is coming and going quickly, unevenly--the feel of it makes glad her very soul! Then comes the struggle. Oh! the sweetness, the perfectness of life if spent alone with the beloved. To sacrifice all things--to go away to some far distant spot with _him_--to know each opening hour will be their very own: they two, with all the world forgotten and well lost--what bliss could equal it? Her arm trembles in his embrace; almost she turns to give herself into his keeping for ever, when a sound, breaking the great stillness, changes the face of all things. Was it a twig snapping, or the rush of the brooklet beyond? or the clear first notes of an awakening bird? She never knows. But all at once remembrance returns to her, and knowledge and wisdom is with her again. To live with a stained life, however dear; to feel his shame day by day; to distrust a later action because of a former one; to draw miserable and degrading conclusions from a sin gone by. _No!_ Her lips quiver. Her heart dies within her. She turns her eyes to the fast reddening sky, and, with her gaze thus fixed on heaven, registers an oath. "As she may not marry him whom she loves, never will she be wife to living man!" And this is her comfort and her curse, that in her heart, until her dying day will nestle her sullied love. Hidden away and wept over in secret, and lamented bitterly at times, but dearer far, for all that, than anything the earth can offer. Gently--very gently--without looking at him, she draws her arm from his touch and rises to her feet. He, too, rises, and stands before her silently as one might who awaits his doom. "To hear with eyes belongs to Love's rare wit." _He_ seems to know all that is now passing in her soul, her weakness--her longing--her love--her strength--her oath--her grief; it is all laid bare to him. And she herself; she is standing before him, her rich satin gown trailing on the green grass, her face pale, her eyes large and mournful. Her soft white neck gleams like snow in the growing light; upon it the strings of pearls rise and fall tumultuously. How strange--how white she seems--like a vision from fairy, or dreamland. Shall he ever forget it?