As Antony and Silencieux became more and more to each other, poor Beatrice, though she had been the first occasion of their love, and little as she now demanded, seldom as Antony spoke to her, seldom as he smiled upon her, distant as were the lonely walks she took, infrequent as was her sad footfall in the little wood,—poor Beatrice, though indeed, so far from active intrusion upon their loves, and as if only by her breathing with them the heavy air of that green unwholesome valley, was becoming an irksome presence of the imagination. They longed to be somewhere together where Beatrice had never been, where her sad face could not follow them; and one night Silencieux whispered to Antony:—

"Take me to the sea, Antony—to some lonely sea."

"To-morrow I will take you," said Antony, "where the loneliest land meets the loneliest sea."

On the morrow evening the High Muses had once more made Antony late for dinner. One hour, and two hours, went by, and then Beatrice, in alarm, took the lantern and courageously braved the blackness of the wood.

The chÂlet was in darkness, and the door was locked, but through the uncurtained glass of the window, she was able to irradiate the emptiness of its interior. Antony was not there.

But she noticed, with a shudder, that the space usually filled by the Image was vacant. Then she understood, and with a hopeless sigh went down the wood again.

Already Antony and Silencieux had found the place where the loneliest land meets the loneliest sea. Side by side they were sitting on a moonlit margin of the world, and Antony was singing low to the murmur of the waves:—

"It is not good," said Silencieux.

"I know," answered Antony.

"Throw it into the sea."

"It is not worthy of the sea."

"Burn it."

"Fire is too august."

"Throw it to the winds."

"They are too busy."

"Bury it."

"It would make barren a whole meadow."

"Forget it."

"I will—And you?"

"I will."

And Antony and Silencieux laughed softly together by the sea.

Many days Antony and Silencieux stayed together by the sea. They loved it together in all its changes, in sun and rain, in wild wind and dreamy calm; at morning when it shone like a spirit, at evening when it flickered like a ghost, at noon when it lay asleep curled up like a woman in the arms of the land. Sometimes at evening they sat in the little fishing harbour, watching the incoming boats, till the sky grew sad with rigging and old men's faces.

Then at last Silencieux said: "I am weary of the sea. Let us go to the town—to the lights and the sad cries of the human waves."

So they went to the town and found a room high up, where they sat at the window and watched the human lights, and listened to the human music.

Never had it been so wonderful to be together.

For a week Antony lived in heaven. Never had Silencieux been so kind, so close to him.

"Let us be little children," he said. "Let us do anything that comes into our heads."

So they ran in and out among pleasures together, joined strange dances and sang strange songs. They clapped their hands to jugglers and acrobats, and animals tortured into talent. And sometimes, as the gaudy theatre resounded about them, they looked so still at each other that all the rest faded away, and they were left alone with each other's eyes and great thoughts of God.

"I love you, Silencieux."

"I love you, Antony."

"You will never leave me lonely in my dream, Silencieux?"

"Never, Antony."

Oh, how tender sometimes was Silencieux!

Several nights they had the whim that Silencieux should masquerade in the wardrobe of her past.

"To-night, you shall go clothed as when you loved that woman in Mitylene," Antony would say.

Or: "To-night you shall be a little shepherd-boy, with a leopard-skin across your shoulder and mountain berries in your hair."

Or again: "To-night you shall be Pierrot—mourning for his Columbine."

Ah! how divine was Silencieux in all her disguises!—a divine child. Oh, how tender those nights was Silencieux!

Antony sat and watched her face in awe and wonder. Surely it was the noblest face that had ever been seen in the world.

"Is it true that that noble face is mine?" he would ask; "I cannot believe it."

"Kiss it," said Silencieux gaily, "and see."

Then on a sudden, what was this change in Silencieux! So cold, so silent, so cruel, had she grown.

"Silencieux," Antony called to her. "Silencieux," he pleaded.

But she never spoke.

"O Silencieux, speak! I cannot bear it."

Then her lips moved. "Shall I speak?" she said, with a cruel smile.

"Yes," he besought her again.

"I shall love you no more in this world. The lights are gone out, the magic faded."

"Silencieux!"

But she spoke no more, and, with those lonely words in his ears, Antony came out of his dream and heard the rain falling miserably through the wood.