“We idled long in those glades, dear heart, The world a purple mist; Beside an amethyst stream we strolled And kept that midnight tryst. The little stars drifted down the sky, A hush! ... I felt a hand, And once ... just once! ... came a whisper soft: ‘Dear heart, I understand!’ “I do not know all we said, dear heart, The night ran swift away, But all the charm of your presence sweet Came back from Dream to Day. It’s not the words that you spoke, dear heart, That made that tryst so fine, But that kind night found a subtle way To bring your hand to mine. “The tears and toil we may know, dear heart, Must some day reach an end; Through miles and years we must search sometimes, Ten thousand for one friend. Yet some great noon in the sun-glare bright, In some vast open space, You’ll stand, flesh-clothed, with your arms outstretched And triumph on your face. “I know few words will be needed then, Lament nor name nor plea, We’ll let our eyes speak the message sweet: ‘Grow old along with me!’ A thousand years shall become as one As heart to heart shall press, And God shall start all his worlds anew From that first white caress. “You may be dark or you may be fair, You may not have a name, Though you’ve been sold for a caliph’s gold That kiss will mean the same. The soul of man has a thousand lives, Yet Love has only one, That leaps alive to the Glory Cry: ‘Dear heart, the trek is done!’ “And so the nights with a velvet tread Mount softly into years; The gray days come and the bright days go, With smiles and fears and tears. But somewhere off o’er a clean sea’s track, Each soul’s High Noon is due; Be strong, dear heart, though the wait is hard; Till then ... just dreams ... and You! —“NATHANIEL FORGE.” Madelaine read the fine-typed verses again and again. An inexplicable, constricted feeling tightened across her chest. Somehow the lines frightened her, as though a Voice had come from the void and whispered a promise close at her ear. She finally creased the edges of the column neat and true. She tore away the ragged portions and folded the poem in her purse. Who was Nathaniel Forge? Why should he write such a poem? She wondered. She saved the poem. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVI MORE ROMANCING I Nathan was in love again! The winter of 1906-1907 contributed two incidents of far-reaching importance to this account of hectic romance.