"The next few hours, perhaps, will atone for everything," Maurice had added. Ah, well! perhaps! But they could not erase the past; they could not control the more distant future. Maurice would come back--Crystal prayed earnestly that he should--but Clyffurde was gone out of her life for ever. God alone knew how this renewed war would end! How could she hope ever to meet a friend who had gone away determined never to see her again? A last dance together! Well! they had had it! and that was the end. The end of a sweet romance that had had no beginning. He had gone now, as Maurice had gone, as all the men had gone who had listened to their country's call, and she, Crystal, could not convey to him even by a message, by a word, that she understood all that he had done for her, all that his actions had meant of devotion, of self-effacement, of pure and tender Love. A last dance together, and that had been the end. Even thoughts of him would be forbidden her after this: for her thoughts were no longer free of him, her heart was no longer free; her promise belonged to Maurice, but her heart, her thoughts were no longer hers to give. It was all too late! too late! the next few hours might atone for the past but they could not call it back. Weary and heart-sick Crystal crawled into bed when the grey light of dawn peeped cold and shy into her room. She could not sleep, but she lay quite still while one by one those distant sounds died away in the misty morning. In this semi-dreamlike state it seemed to her as if she must be able to distinguish the sound of _his_ horse's hoofs from among a thousand others: it seemed as if something in herself must tell her quite plainly where he was, what he did, when he got to horse, which way he went. And presently she closed her eyes against the grey, monotonous light, and during one brief moment she felt deliciously conscious of a sweet, protecting presence somewhere near her, of soft whisperings of fondness and of friendship: the sound of a dream-voice reached her ear and once again as in the sweet-scented alcove she felt herself murmuring: "Who calls?" and once more she heard the tender wailing as of a stricken soul in pain: "A poor heart-broken wretch who could not keep away from your side." And memory-echoes lingered round her, bringing back every sound of his mellow voice, every look in his eyes, the touch of his hand--oh! that exquisite touch!--and his last words before he asked her to dance: "With every drop of my blood, with every nerve, every sinew, every thought I love you." And her heart with a long-drawn-out moan of unconquerable sorrow sent out into the still morning air its agonised call in reply: "Come back, my love, come back! I cannot live without you! You have taught me what Love is--pure, selfless and protecting--you cannot go from me now--you cannot. In the name of that Love which your tender voice has brought into being, come back to me. Do not leave me desolate!" CHAPTER IX