t she had drawn such a prize in the lottery of
life. And had she been already separated from Maurice for six months she
would never have dreamed of doubting his perfect loyalty now that he had
once loved her and taken her to be his. The "all in all or not at all"
nature had been given to Hermione. She must live, rejoice, suffer, die,
according to that nature. She knew much, but she did not know how to hold
herself back, how to be cautious where she loved, how to dissect the
thing she delighted in. She would never know that, so she would never
really know her husband, as Artois might learn to know him, even had
already known him. She would never fully understand the tremendous
barriers set up between people by the different strains of blood in them,
the stern dividing lines that are drawn between the different races of
the earth. Her nature told her that love can conquer all things. She was
too enthusiastic to be always far-seeing.

So now, while Maurice lay beneath the tiny light in the house of the
sirens and was shaken by the wildness of desire, and thought of a
mountain pilgrimage far up towards the sun with Maddalena in his arms,
she sat by Artois's bed and smiled to herself as she pictured the house
of the priest, watched over by the stars of Sicily, and by her many
prayers. Maurice was there, she knew, waiting for her return, longing for
it as she longed for it. Artois turned on his pillow wearily, saw her,
and smiled.

"You oughtn't to be here," he whispered. "But I am glad you are here."

"And I am glad, I am thankful I am here!" she said, truly.

"If there is a God," he said, "He will bless you for this!"

"Hush! You must try to sleep."

She laid her hand in his.

"God has blessed me," she thought, "for all my poor little attempts at
goodness, how far, far more than I deserve!"

And the gratitude within her was almost like an ache, like a beautiful
pain of the heart.

In the morning Maurice put to sea with Gaspare and Salvatore. He knew the
silvery calm of dawn on a day of sirocco. Everything was very still, in a
warm and heavy stillness of silver that made the sweat run down at the
least movement or effort. Masses of white, feathery vapors floated low in
the sky above the sea, concealing the flanks of the mountains, but
leaving their summits clear. And these vapors, hanging like veils with
tattered edges, created a strange privacy upon the sea, an atmosphere of
eternal mysteries. As the boat went out