“With what gratitude I could I thanked her, and kissed my winning wife and went away. Since then, like Proserpine of old, she has come to me and gone. And ever as she goes, in that last gasping hour of pain, I take her to the grating and she sings. Every time some dying soul responds and she is happy, and will make believe that this one is my child and her own. And because from her lips these words seem sweet I never question it, but let her have her way; and if I suffer, I suffer as best I may, in silence like the rest.” We had stood still beside the lake, and still continued standing, watching the rippling moonbeams on the water. After a slight pause he moved along. “Come,” said he, “let us be off. There! midnight strikes; and as it echoes, in the far distance, from the wooden cross above the forest comes the bitter cry of him who had found his God.” CHAPTER VII We returned to the Palace, and still found it the centre of life and brilliancy. I noticed, on entering the large dining-hall in which supper was served, that neither Plucritus nor Vestné were there. “Will you stay?” asked Vestasian. “I think not,” I answered. “I am tired, and not accustomed to many people. I will return.” Almost before the words were spoken I found myself alone in my own chamber. In one way this evening had been different from the others. It had given me interest and food for thought. There was about Vestasian none of that cold languor and chilliness which nearly always distinguished Vestné, neither did there seem to be the same sneering cruelty that characterised Plucritus. Yet as I thought about it the old, old feeling came back upon me by leaps and bounds, bringing the same old pain. Now that I was away from him, from his clear voice, and quiet manner, and curious conversation, I recognised with horrible distrust the fascination he had held for me. I remembered how I had followed him as in a dream, seeing with his eyes, hearing almost with his ears, even arriving at the same thoughts as himself, listening to his stories with an interest as real as if I had taken part in them. I remembered too how he had singled me out for his attention, me, a solitary unknown guest, almost a prisoner, having neither friend nor rank in this great land. When, however, the interest and glamour had gone I saw him as he was, or what I took him for—a terrible power, silent, strong and swift, covered with a veneer of lightness like all the rest. Then came the old cursed sense of unreality. For aught I knew this all might be a dream; I might be suffering like the poet or the sculptor, or any of the others I had seen. Like them I stretched out my arms, trying to push the horrid thing away, because, dream or no dream, the pain was unmistakable to me. Upon this there came another hard conviction. None left this gloomy region except through death. Every tortured spirit lingered, then passed away back to the earth, or some equivalent.