He was not prepared to take her out of the tempest,
helpless and weeping and lost for the harbour of his
heart, and nothing could he say. He locked his lips
against all that came murmuring to them. But his arms
tightened about her and he drew her into the shelter of
a wall that jutted out in the irregular street; and there
they stood and clung together in a long, close, broken
silence that covered the downfall of her spirit. It was
the moment of their great experience of one another;
never again, in whatever crisis, could either know so
deep, so wonderful a fathoming of the other soul. Once
as it passed, Advena put up her hand and touched his
cheek: There were tears on it, and she trembled, and
wound her arm about his neck, and held up her face to
his. "No," he muttered, and crushed it against his breast.
There without complaint she let it lie; she was all
submission to him: his blood leaped and his spirit groaned
with the knowledge of it.
"Why did you come out? Why did you come, dear?" he said
at last.
"I don't know. There was such a wind. I could not stay
in the house."
She spoke timidly, in a voice that should have been new
to him, but that it was, above all, her voice.
"I was on my way to you."
"I know. I thought you might perhaps come. If you had
not--I think I was on my way to you.
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