“Ah, because all is different. You have done something to me; I don’t know what, or why. Something in your sub-consciousness must have reached mine. You have burst the bars of my prison and set my spirit free. I shall leave here and go back to the world, a man among men. Hitherto I have felt—do you know the weird Schubert song?—a Doppelgänger. Good Lord, the horror of it! But you have broken the spell. I don’t know how you did it. Perhaps it was because you asked me in.” “Why did you come in?” she whispered: “You, who always preferred to remain outside.” “Dare I tell you?” he asked. “Will you think it awful cheek? It was because—at last—at last—it was Home.” The woman on the couch opened wide her arms and leaned toward him with a movement of extraordinary tenderness. Her face was illumined by a radiance almost unearthly in its sublime joy. “It _was_ Home,” she said. “It _is_ Home. Ah, do you not remember, belovèd? Never call yourself Luke Sparrow again. Never call yourself a foundling—you, whom I have found at last! I can tell you your name, if there be still need to tell it: Nigel Guido Cardross Tintagel.” “What?” The blood leapt into his face. His outstretched hands almost met hers. “Are you—are _you_—my mother?” “No, belovèd, no! Oh, Nigel, think again! Remember! You _must_ remember!” His hands clutched his knees. He looked full into her eyes; a long, steady gaze. At last: “I remember nothing,” he said. “You will have to tell me. I would to God you were my mother. But, if that may not be, then—in Heaven’s name—what are you to me?” Her voice was a pæan of triumphant joy. “I am your wife.” The man in the chair sat before her, petrified. His hands gripped his knees. Twice he essayed to speak; but no sound would pass his lips. At length: “Great God!” he said: “Am I mad, or are you?” “Nigel,” she said, “my dearest, you have come back to me. My boundless love, my desperate grief, my passionate prayers, have brought you back to me. My lover, my husband, my heart’s dearest, try to remember!” “I remember nothing,” he said. “This is the madness of a strange, wild dream. Presently I shall wake and find myself lying on golden bracken, while the dawn breaks in the east, and the stars pale in the sky. I have dreamed this dream before. I shall wake. It will mean losing you; but I _must_ wake.” He leapt to his feet and shouted the last words; “I _must_ wake!” “Hush, my dearest, hush!” She spoke as if soothing a startled child. “Sit down, and I will explain. I can make all clear, if you will listen patiently. To you it is startling. But I have waited so long; I have known so long that you were coming. Sit down and listen. Striding about the room will not wake you, because this is no dream. It is blessed, blessed reality. Listen, Nigel! Listen, belovèd! I will make it all quite clear.” She rose, poured out a glass of wine and brought it to him. “Drink this. How your hand shakes!... No; I will not touch you; but I beg of you to drink it.”