In a little, she spoke of many things, and I listened.  Willingly, would I have done so through all the ages that are to come.  At times, I whispered back, and my whispers brought to her spirit face, once more, an indescribably delicate tint—­the bloom of love.  Later, I spoke more freely, and to each word she listened, and made answer, delightfully; so that, already, I was in Paradise.

She and I; and nothing, save the silent, spacious void to see us; and only the quiet waters of the Sea of Sleep to hear us.

Long before, the floating multitude of cloud-enfolded spheres had vanished into nothingness.  Thus, we looked upon the face of the slumberous deeps, and were alone.  Alone, God, I would be thus alone in the hereafter, and yet be never lonely!  I had her, and, greater than this, she had me.  Aye, aeon-aged me; and on this thought, and some others, I hope to exist through the few remaining years that may yet lie between us.

XXI

THE DARK SUN

How long our souls lay in the arms of joy, I cannot say; but, all at once, I was waked from my happiness, by a diminution of the pale and gentle light that lit the Sea of Sleep.  I turned toward the huge, white orb, with a premonition of coming trouble.  One side of it was curving inward, as though a convex, black shadow were sweeping across it.  My memory went back.  It was thus, that the darkness had come, before our last parting.  I turned toward my Love, inquiringly.  With a sudden knowledge of woe, I noticed how wan and unreal she had grown, even in that brief space.  Her voice seemed to come to me from a distance.  The touch of her hands was no more than the gentle pressure of a summer wind, and grew less perceptible.

Already, quite half of the immense globe was shrouded.  A feeling of desperation seized me.  Was she about to leave me?  Would she have to go, as she had gone before?  I questioned her, anxiously, frightenedly; and she, nestling closer, explained, in that strange, faraway voice, that it was imperative she should leave me, before the Sun of Darkness—­as she termed it—­blotted out the light.  At this confirmation of my fears, I was overcome with despair; and could only look, voicelessly, across the quiet plains of the silent sea.

How swiftly the darkness spread across the face of the White Orb.  Yet, in reality, the time must have been long, beyond human comprehension.

At last, only a crescent of pale fire, lit the, now dim, Sea of Sleep.  All this while, she had held me; but, with so soft a caress, that I had been scarcely conscious of it.  We waited there, together, she and I; speechless, for very sorrow.  In the dimming light, her face showed, shadowy—­blending into the dusky mistiness that encircled us.

Then, when a thin, curved line of soft light was all that lit the sea, she released me—­pushing me from her, tenderly.  Her voice sounded in my ears, ‘I may not stay longer, Dear One.’  It ended in a sob.