“It is beautiful.  Shall we sit down here and look at it?”

They sat down on a low mass of fallen masonry some fifteen paces from the window.  Around them lay a delicate tracery of shadows, whilst they themselves were seated in the eye of the moonlight, and remained for a while as silent and as still as though they had been the shades of the painted figures that had once filled the stony frame above them.

“Angela,” he said at length—­“Angela, listen, and I will tell you something.  My mother, a woman to whom sorrow had become almost an inspiration, when she was dying, spoke to me something thus:  ’There is,’ she said, ’but one thing that I know of that has the power to make life happy as God meant it to be, and as the folly and weakness of men and women render it nearly impossible for it to be, and that is —­love.  Love has been the consolation of my own existence in the midst of many troubles; first, the great devotion I bore your father, and then that which I entertain for yourself.  Without these two ties, life would indeed have been a desert.  And yet, though it is a grief to me to leave you, and though I shrink from the dark passage that lies before me, so far does that first great love outweigh the love I bear you, that in my calmer moments I am glad to go, because I know I am awaited by your father.  And from this I wish you to learn a lesson:  look for your happiness in life from the love of your life, for there only will you find it.  Do not fritter away your heart, but seek out some woman, some one good and pure and true, and in giving her your devotion, you will reap a full reward, for her happiness will reflect your own, and, if your choice is right, you will, however stormy your life may be, lay up for yourself, as I feel that I have done, an everlasting joy.’”

She listened to him in silence.

“Angela,” he went on, boldly enough, now that the ice was broken, “I have often thought about what my mother said, but until now I have never quite understood her meaning.  I do understand it now.  Angela, do you understand me?”

There was no answer; she sat there upon the fallen masonry, gazing at the ruins round her, motionless and white as a marble goddess, forgotten in her desecrated fane.

“Oh, Angela, listen to me—­listen to me!  I have found the woman of whom my mother spoke, who must be so ‘good and pure and true.’  You are she.  I love you, Angela, I love you with my whole life and soul; I love you for this world and the next.  Oh! do not reject me; though I am so little worthy of you, I will try to grow so.  Dearest, can you love me?”

Still there was silence, but he thought that he saw her breast heave gently.  Then he placed his hand, all trembling with the fierce emotion that throbbed along his veins, upon the palm that hung listless by her side, and gazed into her eyes.  Still she neither spoke nor shrank, and, in the imperfect light, her face looked very pale, while her lovely eyes were dark and meaningless as those of one entranced.