Here a voice spoke:  an ineffable voice, which seemed from afar, and appeared to come at once from the heights and the depths—­a voice divinely fearful, the voice of Dea.

All that Gwynplaine had hitherto felt seemed nothing.  His angel spoke.  It seemed as though he heard words spoken from another world in a heaven-like trance.

The voice said,—­

“He did well to go.  This world was not worthy of him.  Only I must go with him.  Father!  I am not ill; I heard you speak just now.  I am very well, quite well.  I was asleep.  Father, I am going to be happy.”

“My child,” said Ursus in a voice of anguish, “what do you mean by that?”

The answer was,—­

“Father, do not be unhappy.”

There was a pause, as if to take breath, and then these few words, pronounced slowly, reached Gwynplaine.

“Gwynplaine is no longer here.  It is now that I am blind.  I knew not what night was.  Night is absence.”

The voice stopped once more, and then continued,—­

“I always feared that he would fly away.  I felt that he belonged to heaven.  He has taken flight suddenly.  It was natural that it should end thus.  The soul flies away like a bird.  But the nest of the soul is in the height, where dwells the Great Loadstone, who draws all towards Him.  I know where to find Gwynplaine.  I have no doubt about the way.  Father, it is yonder.  Later on, you will rejoin us, and Homo, too.”

Homo, hearing his name pronounced, wagged his tail softly against the deck.

“Father!” resumed the voice, “you understand that once Gwynplaine is no longer here, all is over.  Even if I would remain, I could not, because one must breathe.  We must not ask for that which is impossible.  I was with Gwynplaine.  It was quite natural, I lived.  Now Gwynplaine is no more, I die.  The two things are alike:  either he must come or I must go.  Since he cannot come back, I am going to him.  It is good to die.  It is not at all difficult.  Father, that which is extinguished here shall be rekindled elsewhere.  It is a heartache to live in this world.  It cannot be that we shall always be unhappy.  When we go to what you call the stars, we shall marry, we shall never part again, and we shall love, love, love; and that is what is God.”

“There, there, do not agitate yourself,” said Ursus.

The voice continued,—­

“Well, for instance; last year.  In the spring of last year we were together, and we were happy.  How different it is now!  I forget what little village we were in, but there were trees, and I heard the linnets singing.  We came to London; all was changed.  This is no reproach, mind.  When one comes to a fresh place, how is one to know anything about it?  Father, do you remember that one day there was a woman in the great box; you said:  ‘It is a duchess.’  I felt sad.  I think it might have been better had we kept to the little towns.  Gwynplaine has done right, withal.