As the sun set, the fog dispersed a little. Breaking masses of mist went flying from cliff to cliff, and far away beyond the cliffs the western sky stood dimmed with gold. The lovers wandered aimlessly over the golf-links to where green mounds and turfed banks suggested to Helena that she was tired, and would sit down. They faced the lighted chamber of the west, whence, behind the torn, dull-gold curtains of fog, the sun was departing with pomp. Siegmund sat very still, watching the sunset. It was a splendid, flaming bridal chamber where he had come to Helena. He wondered how to express it; how other men had borne this same glory. “What is the music of it?” he asked. She glanced at him. His eyelids were half lowered, his mouth slightly open, as if in ironic rhapsody. “Of what, dear?” “What music do you think holds the best interpretation of sunset?” His skin was gold, his real mood was intense. She revered him for a moment. “I do not know,” she said quietly; and she rested her head against his shoulder, looking out west. There was a space of silence, while Siegmund dreamed on. “A Beethoven symphony—the one—” and he explained to her. She was not satisfied, but leaned against him, making her choice. The sunset hung steady, she could scarcely perceive a change. “The Grail music in _Lohengrin_,” she decided. “Yes,” said Siegmund. He found it quite otherwise, but did not trouble to dispute. He dreamed by himself. This displeased her. She wanted him for herself. How could he leave her alone while he watched the sky? She almost put her two hands over his eyes. IV The gold march of sunset passed quickly, the ragged curtains of mist closed to. Soon Siegmund and Helena were shut alone within the dense wide fog. She shivered with the cold and the damp. Startled, he took her in his arms, where she lay and clung to him. Holding her closely, he bent forward, straight to her lips. His moustache was drenched cold with fog, so that she shuddered slightly after his kiss, and shuddered again. He did not know why the strong tremor passed through her. Thinking it was with fear and with cold, he undid his overcoat, put her close on his breast, and covered her as best he could. That she feared him at that moment was half pleasure, half shame to him. Pleadingly he hid his face on her shoulder, held her very tightly, till his face grew hot, buried against her soft strong throat. “You are so big I can’t hold you,” she whispered plaintively, catching her breath with fear. Her small hands grasped at the breadth of his shoulders ineffectually. “You will be cold. Put your hands under my coat,” he whispered. He put her inside his overcoat and his coat. She came to his warm breast with a sharp intaking of delight and fear; she tried to make her hands meet in the warmth of his shoulders, tried to clasp him. “See! I can’t,” she whispered. He laughed short, and pressed her closer.