Rather oddly, in that his thoughts were chaos, swallowed up in the surge of feeling, a memory struck through to him of that other exaltation which had swept him to the stars.  He looked upon it and was amazed because now he saw it, in clear light, for the thing it had been.  He saw it for a fantasy, a self-evoked wraith of the imagination, a dizzy flight of the spirit through spirit space.  He saw that it had not been love at all, and he realized how little a part Helen Benham had ever really played in it.  A cold and still-eyed figure for him to wrap the veil of his imagination round, that was what she had been.  There were times when the sweep of his upward flight had stirred her a little, wakened in her some vague response, but for the most part she had stood aside and looked on, wondering.

The mist was rent away from that rainbow-painted cobweb, and at last the man saw and understood.  He gave an exclamation of wonder, and the girl who loved him raised her head once more, and the two looked each into the other’s eyes for a long time.  They fell into hushed and broken speech.

“I have loved you so long, so long,” she said, “and so hopelessly!  I never thought—­I never believed.  To think that in the end you have come to me!  I cannot believe it!”

“Wait and see!” cried the man.  “Wait and see!”

She shivered a little.  “If it is not true I should like to die before I find out.  I should like to die now, Bayard, with your arms holding me up and your eyes close, close.”

Ste. Marie’s arms tightened round her with a sudden fierceness.  He hurt her, and she smiled up at him.  Their two hearts beat one against the other, and they beat very fast.

“Don’t you understand,” he cried, “that life’s only just beginning—­day’s just dawning, Coira?  We’ve been lost in the dark.  Day’s coming now.  This is only the sunrise.”

“I can believe it at last,” she said, “because you hold me close and you hurt me a little, and I’m glad to be hurt.  And I can feel your heart beating.  Ah, never let me go, Bayard!  I should be lost in the dark again if you let me go.”  A sudden thought came to her, and she bent back her head to see the better.  “Did you speak with Arthur?”

And he said:  “Yes.  He asked me to read your note, so I read it.  That poor lad!  I came straight to you then—­straight and fast.”

“You knew why I did it?” she said, and Ste. Marie said: 

“Now I know.”

“I could not have married him,” said she.  “I could not.  I never thought I should see you again, but I loved you and I could not have married him.  Ah, impossible!  And he’ll be glad later on.  You know that.  It will save him any more trouble with his family, and besides—­he’s so very young.  Already, I think, he was beginning to chafe a little.  I thought so more than once.  Oh, I’m trying to justify myself!” she cried.  “I’m trying to find reasons; but you know the true reason.  You know it.”