“It is true,” moaned Antony.

“Many men and many loves are there in this world,” continued Silencieux, “and each knows the way of his own love, nor shall anything turn him from it in the end.  Here he may go and thither he may turn, but in the end there is only one way of joy for each, and in that way must he go or perish.  Many faces are fair upon the earth, but for each man is a face fairest of all, for which, unless he win it, each must go desolate forever—­”

“Face of Eternal Beauty,” said Antony, “there is but one face for me for ever.  It is yours.”

* * * * *

On the morrow Beatrice saw once more that light in Antony’s face which made her afraid.  He had brought with him some sheets of paper on which were written the songs of little Wonder Silencieux had bidden him sing.  They were songs of grief so poignant and beautiful one grew happy in listening to them, and Antony forgot all in the joy of having made them.  He read them to Beatrice in an ecstasy.  Her face grew sadder and sadder as he read.  When he had finished she said:—­

“Antony!—­Silencieux has risen again.”

“O Beatrice, Beatrice—­I would do anything in the world for you—­but I cannot live without her.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE STRANGENESS OF ANTONY

From this moment Silencieux took possession of Antony as she had never taken it before.  Never had he been so inaccessibly withdrawn into his fatal dream.  Beatrice forgot her own bitter sorrow in her fear for him, so wrought was he with the fires that consumed him.  Some days she almost feared for his reason, and she longed to watch over him, but his old irritation at her presence had returned.

As the summer days came on, she would see him disappear through the green door of the wood at morning and return by it at evening; but all the day each had been alone, Beatrice alone with a solitude in which was now no longer any Wonder.  The summer beauty gave her courage, but she knew that the end could not be very far away.

One day there had been that in Antony’s manner which had more than usually alarmed her, and when night fell and he had not returned, she went up the wood in search of him, her heart full of forebodings.  As she neared the chalet she seemed to hear voices.  No! there was only one voice.  Antony was talking to some one.  Careful to make no noise, she stole up to the window and looked in.  The sight that met her eyes filled her with a great dread.  “O God, he is going mad,” she cried to herself.

Antony was sitting in a big chair drawn up to the fire.  Opposite to him, lying back in her cushions, was the Image draped in a large black velvet cloak.  A table stood between them, and on it stood two glasses, and a decanter nearly empty of wine, Silencieux’s glass stood untasted, but Antony had evidently been drinking deeply, for his cheeks were flushed and his eyes wild.