She neither realized nor cared that it was growing darker, and, after awhile, when the sea was no longer visible through the dun haze that brooded over it, she shut her eyes and moaned. Dr. Grey had walked on, hoping every moment to meet her returning home; and, more than once, he was tempted to retrace his steps, thinking that she might have taken some direct path across the hills, instead of the circuitous one bending around their base. Quickening his pace till it matched his pulse, which an indefinable anxiety accelerated, he finally saw the huts dimly outlined against the starry sky and quiet sea. Pausing, he took off his hat to listen to "The water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds," and, while he stood wiping his brow, there came across the beach,-- "A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come since the making of the world." In the uncertain light he ran towards the clump of trees where he had left Salome, and strained his eyes to discover some moving thing. He knew that he must be very near the spot, but neither the expected sound nor object greeted him, and, while he stopped and held his breath to listen, the silence was profound and death-like. He was opening his lips to call the girl's name, when he fancied he saw something move slightly, and simultaneously a human voice smote the oppressive stillness. She was very near him, and he heard her saying to herself, with mournful emphasis,-- "Have I brought Joy, and slain her at his feet? Have I brought Peace, for his cold kiss to kill? Have I brought youth, crowned with wild-flowers sweet, With sandals dewy from a morning hill, For his gray, solemn eyes, to fright and chill? Have I brought Scorn the pale, and Hope the fleet, And First Love, in her lily winding-sheet,-- And is he pitiless still?" Dr. Grey knew now that she was not crying. Her hard, ringing, bitter tone, forbade all thought of sobs or tears; but his heart ached as he listened, and surmised the application she was making of the melancholy lines. Unwilling that she should know he had overheard her, he waited a moment, then raised his voice and shouted,-- "Salome! Salome! Where are you?" There was no answer, and, fearing that she might elude him, he stretched out his arms, and advanced to the spot, which he felt assured was only a few yards distant. She had risen, and, standing in the gloom of the coming night, deepened by the interlacing boughs above her, she felt Dr. Grey's hand on her dress, then on her head, where the moisture hung heavily in her thick hair. "Salome, why do you not answer me?" Shame kept her silent. He passed his hand over her hot face, then groped for her fingers, which he grasped firmly in his. "Come home with your best friend."