heir love. Below the wall,
on the side of the ravine, the leaves of the olives rustled faintly as
the wind passed by. And this whisper of the leaves seemed to be meant for
them, to be addressed to them. They were surely being told something by
the little voices of the night.

"Maurice," Hermione said, at last, "does this silence of the mountains
make you wish for anything?"

"Wish?" he said. "I don't know--no, I think not. I have got what I
wanted. I have got you. Why should I wish for anything more? And I feel
at home here. It's extraordinary how I feel at home."

"You! No, it isn't extraordinary at all."

She looked up at him, still keeping her arms on the terrace wall. His
physical beauty, which had always fascinated her, moved her more than
ever in the south, seemed to her to become greater, to have more meaning
in this setting of beauty and romance. She thought of the old pagan gods.
He was, indeed, suited to be their happy messenger. At that moment
something within her more than loved him, worshipped him, felt for him an
idolatry that had something in it of pain. A number of thoughts ran
through her mind swiftly. One was this: "Can it be possible that he will
die some day, that he will be dead?" And the awfulness, the unspeakable
horror of the death of the body gripped her and shook her in the dark.

"Oh, Maurice!" she said. "Maurice!"

"What is it?"

She held out her hands to him. He took them and sat down by her.

"What is it, Hermione?" he said again.

"If beauty were only deathless!"

"But--but all this is, for us. It was here for the old Greeks to see, and
I suppose it will be here--"

"I didn't mean that."

"I've been stupid," he said, humbly.

"No, my dearest--my dearest one. Oh, how did you ever love me?"

She had forgotten the warning of Artois. The dirty little beggar was
staring at the angel and wanted the angel to know it.

"Hermione! What do you mean?"

He looked at her, and there was genuine surprise in his face and in his
voice.

"How can you love me? I'm so ugly. Oh, I feel it here, I feel it horribly
in the midst of--of all this loveliness, with you."

She hid her face against his shoulder almost like one afraid.

"But you are not ugly! What nonsense! Hermione!"

He put his hand under her face and raised it, and the touch of his hand
against her cheek made her tremble. To-night she more than loved, she
worshipped him. Her intellect did not speak any more. Its voice was
si