“The terrible splendour of life, that is the secret--the terrible splendour.” She awoke almost with a shock, and, turning round, shook him by the lapel of his coat. “How did you know, Walter? How did you know?” Her voice quavered; he felt that she was trembling. A flash showed her straining her eyes into his face. They waited for the thunderclap during a second of intensity. “What?” he asked. “Those words. Those very words had just come to me, the meaning of everything--The terrible splendour of life. How did you know?” “It was our souls that were going together through the storm.” She released him, and withdrew a little. “Did you know all that I was thinking?” “Or all that the sea was telling you?” “Did you feel that, too?” she asked breathlessly. “I think so,” he replied. “It was strange,” she said. “I hardly knew that I was here. I seemed to be away in the midst of it all, but I don't think I lost consciousness. I had adventures--curious adventures.” She paused abruptly, then she continued: “They seemed to be definite then, but they are all a blur now. It was a kind of battle between man and evil forces, and I think I felt a voice speaking through it, and saying that the splendour of man would never be subdued; and the impression I 've got is, that I saw something, whether it was a shape or a scene I don't know, but something great and grand and fierce and heroic, and the voice told me it was life. The only thing I have clear is the words, 'the terrible splendour of life,' the words you plucked out of me.” “It is the great secret,” he said. “Yes.” There was another silence. The storm began to pass gradually away. The lightning became rarer, and the intervals longer between flash and thunder. “It is beginning to be clear,” she said at last. “All that has troubled me. All that you guessed I was feeling, and that I told you of only when you compelled me. You have been right. Once--do you remember?--you said that if I saw God through the beauty and the vanity of the world all would be well.” “I ought to have told you to see Him through the pain of the world,” said Herold. “You have told me that, in other words, ever since; and I was deaf.” “Not I, dear,” said Herold. “Yes, you. Now I understand.” She drew a deep breath. “Now, I understand. It's like an open book. That woman--Unity--wait,” she paused, and put her two hands to her head in the darkness. “I have a glimmer of a memory--it's so illusive. It seems that I saw Unity just now. I understand all that she was, all that she meant.” A flash showed the sea. “Yes, I was out there,” she cried excitedly, and pointed. “Just out there.” Darkness engulfed them. “I forget,” she faltered, “I forget.” “But the sea has taken you back at last, Stellamaris,” said Herold. She seized his hand and held it during the peal. Then she cried in a tone of sudden terror: “Walter!” “Yes?” “What you said--your prophesy--the comfort of the sea--the deeper meaning--” He leaped to his feet.