learnt the weakness
of all the philosophies as in a flash of lightning one sees clearly. She
could have laughed at the sophism that one chooses always that which
pleases one most. She knew that there are unfathomed depths in being
which open beneath us in great crises and swallow up the foundations on
which we builded and thought sure. She paralysed her passion intuitively,
waiting, as one holds breath in the water when a broken wave surges over.

Gradually she forgot, an aching pain in her body lulling the aching pain
of her mind. Gradually the white disc of the moon expanded before her and
blotted out all active consciousness. Slowly the fierce serpents withdrew
their hissing heads again. Slowly the ideal she had fought for lifted
itself again within her. She began to feel more like her old self, only
strangely exhausted and sorrowful. She was old, so old; weary, so weary.
Hours went by. She passed into abstraction.

The falling of the moon behind the roofs roused her. She gazed at its
disappearing rim in bewilderment, for the moment not realising. Then the
sense of bodily pain dawned on her and assured her of the Reality.

She stood up, feeling stiff and bruised, her back aching, her head
swimming, all her desiring ebbing as the moon waned. Already the glimmer
of dawn paled the moonshine. She could hear the crowing of the cocks, the
occasional rumble of a cart, the indescribable murmur that betokens an
awakening city. The night had gone at last and the daylight had come and
she had worn herself out and conquered. She thought this without joy; it
was her fate not her heart. Nature itself had come to her rescue, the
very Nature she had resisted and denied.

She struck a light and looked into the glass, curious to know if she were
the same still. Dark circles surrounded her eyes, her nose was pinched,
her cheeks wan, on her forehead between the brows were distinct wrinkles,
from the corners of the mouth were chiselled deeply the lines of pain.
She was years older. Could it be possible that only five hours ago she
had flung herself into a lover's arm by the moonlit water, a passionate
girl, in womanhood's first bloom? She had cast those days behind her for
ever, she thought; she would serve the Cause alone, henceforth, while she
lived. Rest, eternal rest, must come at last; she could only hope that it
would come soon. At least, if she lived without joy, she would die
without self-reproach.

Exhausted, she sank to sle