When Helena was really rested, she took great pleasure in Tintagel. In the first place, she found that the cove was exactly, almost identically the same as the Walhalla scene in _Walküre_; in the second place, _Tristan_ was here, in the tragic country filled with the flowers of a late Cornish summer, an everlasting reality; in the third place, it was a sea of marvellous, portentous sunsets, of sweet morning baths, of pools blossomed with life, of terrible suave swishing of foam which suggested the Anadyomene. In sun it was the enchanted land of divided lovers. Helena for ever hummed fragments of _Tristan_. As she stood on the rocks she sang, in her little, half-articulate way, bits of Isolde’s love, bits of Tristan’s anguish, to Siegmund. She had not received her letter on Sunday. That had not very much disquieted her, though she was disappointed. On Monday she was miserable because of Siegmund’s silence, but there was so much of enchantment in Tintagel, and Olive and Louisa were in such high spirits, that she forgot most whiles. On Monday night, towards two o’clock, there came a violent storm of thunder and lightning. Louisa started up in bed at the first clap, waking Helena. The room palpitated with white light for two seconds; the mirror on the dressing-table glared supernaturally. Louisa clutched her friend. All was dark again, the thunder clapping directly. “There, wasn’t that lovely!” cried Louisa, speaking of the lightning. “Oo, wasn’t it magnificent!—glorious!” The door clicked and opened: Olive entered in her long white nightgown. She hurried to the bed. “I say, dear!” she exclaimed, “may I come into the fold? I prefer the shelter of your company, dear, during this little lot.” “Don’t you like it?” cried Louisa. “I think it’s _lovely_—lovely!” There came another slash of lightning. The night seemed to open and shut. It was a pallid vision of a ghost-world between the clanging shutters of darkness. Louisa and Olive clung to each other spasmodically. “There!” exclaimed the former, breathless. “That was fine! Helena, did you see that?” She clasped ecstatically the hand of her friend, who was lying down. Helena’s answer was extinguished by the burst of thunder. “There’s no accounting for tastes,” said Olive, taking a place in the bed. “I can’t say I’m struck on lightning. What about you, Helena?” “I’m not struck yet,” replied Helena, with a sarcastic attempt at a jest. “Thank you, dear,” said Olive; “you do me the honour of catching hold.” Helena laughed ironically. “Catching what?” asked Louisa, mystified. “Why, dear,” answered Olive, heavily condescending to explain, “I offered Helena the handle of a pun, and she took it. What a flash! You know, it’s not that I’m afraid….” The rest of her speech was overwhelmed in thunder.