Dea continued murmuring.  She moved her lips, and by degrees the murmur became a melody.  In broken pauses, and with the interrupted cadences of delirium, her voice broke into the mysterious appeal she had so often addressed to Gwynplaine in Chaos Vanquished.  She sang, and her voice was low and uncertain as the murmur of the bee,—­

  “Noche, quita te de alli. 
  El alba canta...."[23]

She stopped.  “No, it is not true.  I am not dead.  What was I saying?  Alas!  I am alive.  I am alive.  He is dead.  I am below.  He is above.  He is gone.  I remain.  I shall hear his voice no more, nor his footstep.  God, who had given us a little Paradise on earth, has taken it away.  Gwynplaine, it is over.  I shall never feel you near me again.  Never!  And his voice!  I shall never hear his voice again.  And she sang:—­

  “Es menester a cielos ir—­
  Deja, quiero,
  A tu negro
  Caparazon.”

  “We must go to heaven. 
  Take off, I entreat thee,
  Thy black cloak.”

She stretched out her hand, as if she sought something in space on which she might rest.

Gwynplaine, rising by the side of Ursus, who had suddenly become as though petrified, knelt down before her.

“Never,” said Dea, “never shall I hear him again.”

She began, wandering, to sing again:—­

  “Deja, quiero,
  A tu negro
  Caparazon.”

Then she heard a voice—­even the beloved voice—­answering:—­

  “O ven! ama! 
  Eres alma,
  Soy corazon.”

  “O come and love
  Thou art the soul,
  I am the heart.”

And at the same instant Dea felt under her hand the head of Gwynplaine.  She uttered an indescribable cry.

“Gwynplaine!”

A light, as of a star, shone over her pale face, and she tottered.  Gwynplaine received her in his arms.

“Alive!” cried Ursus.

Dea repeated “Gwynplaine;” and with her head bowed against Gwynplaine’s cheek, she whispered faintly,—­

“You have come down to me again.  I thank you, Gwynplaine.”

And seated on his knee, she lifted up her head.  Wrapt in his embrace, she turned her sweet face towards him, and fixed on him those eyes so full of light and shadow, as though she could see him.

“It is you,” she said.

Gwynplaine covered her sobs with kisses.  There are words which are at once words, cries, and sobs, in which all ecstasy and all grief are mingled and burst forth together.  They have no meaning, and yet tell all.

“Yes, it is!  It is I, Gwynplaine, of whom you are the soul.  Do you hear me?  I, of whom you are the child, the wife, the star, the breath of life; I, to whom you are eternity.  It is I. I am here.  I hold you in my arms.  I am alive.  I am yours.  Oh, when I think that in a moment all would have been over—­one minute more, but for Homo!  I will tell you everything.