In one hollow place the siren from the Needles seemed to bellow full in their ears. Both Siegmund and Helena felt their emotion too intense. They turned from it. “What is the pitch?” asked Helena. “Where it is horizontal? It slides up a chromatic scale,” said Siegmund. “Yes, but the settled pitch—is it about E?” “E!” exclaimed Siegmund. “More like F.” “Nay, listen!” said Helena. They stood still and waited till there came the long booing of the fog-horn. “There!” exclaimed Siegmund, imitating the sound. “That is not E.” He repeated the sound. “It is F.” “Surely it is E,” persisted Helena. “Even F sharp,” he rejoined, humming the note. She laughed, and told him to climb the chromatic scale. “But you agree?” he said. “I do not,” she replied. The fog was cold. It seemed to rob them of their courage to talk. “What is the note in _Tristan_?” Helena made an effort to ask. “That is not the same,” he replied. “No, dear, that is not the same,” she said in low, comforting tones. He quivered at the caress. She put her arms round him reached up her face yearningly for a kiss. He forgot they were standing in the public footpath, in daylight, till she drew hastily away. She heard footsteps down the fog. As they climbed the path the mist grew thinner, till it was only a grey haze at the top. There they were on the turfy lip of the land. The sky was fairly clear overhead. Below them the sea was singing hoarsely to itself. Helena drew him to the edge of the cliff. He crushed her hand, drawing slightly back. But it pleased her to feel the grip on her hand becoming unbearable. They stood right on the edge, to see the smooth cliff slope into the mist, under which the sea stirred noisily. “Shall we walk over, then?” said Siegmund, glancing downwards. Helena’s heart stood still a moment at the idea, then beat heavily. How could he play with the idea of death, and the five great days in front? She was afraid of him just then. “Come away, dear,” she pleaded. He would, then, forgo the few consummate days! It was bitterness to her to think so. “Come away, dear!” she repeated, drawing him slowly to the path. “You are not afraid?” he asked. “Not afraid, no….” Her voice had that peculiar, reedy, harsh quality that made him shiver. “It is too easy a way,” he said satirically. She did not take in his meaning. “And five days of our own before us, Siegmund!” she scolded. “The mist is Lethe. It is enough for us if its spell lasts five days.” He laughed, and took her in his arms, kissing her very closely. They walked on joyfully, locking behind them the doors of forgetfulness.