cted
with his.

So now he sat outside under the pine tree, and she was within alone. A
first step was taken on the path.

Would she presently come through the hall of the Victory to call him in?

He heard the guardian cough in the vestibule of the Emperors; the cough
was that of a man securely alone with his bodily manifestations. The
train of peasants had vanished. Still the sheep-bells sounded, but the
chime seemed to come to him now from a greater distance.

The morning was wearing on. When would she come back to him from the
secret of Olympia?

He heard again above his head the eternities whispering in the pine
branches. The calmness and heat of the valley mingled together, and rose
to him, and wanted to take him to themselves. But he was detached from
them, terribly detached by his virtue--his virtue, which involved him in
a struggle, pushed them off.

Surely an hour had passed, perhaps even more. He began to tingle with
impatience. The sound of the sheep-bells had died away beyond the
colonnade of the echoes. A living silence was now about him.

At last he put on his hat and got up. The Hermes was proving his power
too mercilessly, was stealing the hours like a thief at work in the
dark. The knowledge that Rosamund was his own for life did not help Dion
at all at this moment. He had planned out this day as if they were never
to have another. Their time in Greece was nearly over, and they could
not linger for very long anywhere. Anyhow, just this day, once gone,
could never be recaptured.

He looked towards the doorway of the Museum, hesitating. He was devoured
by impatience. Nevertheless he did not wish to step out of that path,
the beginning of which he had seen in the night. Determined not to seek
Rosamund, yet driven by restlessness, he did one of those meaningless
things which, bringing hurt to nature, are expected by man to bring him
at least a momentary solace. His eyes happened to rest on the olive tree
which stood not far from the Museum. One branch of it was stretched out
beyond the others. He walked up to the tree, pulled at the branch, and
finally snapped it off, stripped it of its leaves and threw it on the
ground.

As he finished this stupid and useless act, Rosamund came out of the
Museum, looking almost angry.

"Oh, Dion, was it you?" she asked. "What could make you do such a
thing?"

"But--what do you mean?" he asked.

She looked down at the massacred branch at his feet.

"A branc