With all her strength she sought to frustrate her, but her strength had become very feebleness; and when, despite resistance, Isabel wrapped her round in the garment she had discarded, her resistance was too puny to take effect.

“My dear,” Isabel said, in her voice the deep music of maternal tenderness, “I am not needing it.  I shall not need any earthly things for long.  I am going to meet my husband in the dawning.  But you—­you will go back.”

She fastened the coat with a quiet dexterity that made Dinah think again of Scott, and sat down again in her corner as if unconscious of the cold.

“Come and lie in my arms, little one!” she said.  “Perhaps you will be able to sleep.”

Dinah crept close.  “It will kill you—­it will kill you!” she sobbed.  “Oh, why did I let you?”

Isabel’s arms closed about her.  “Don’t cry, dear!” she murmured fondly.  “It is nothing to me.  A little sooner—­a little later!  If you had suffered what I have suffered you would say as I do, ’Dear God, let it be soon!’ There!  Put your head on my shoulder, dear child!  See if you can get a little sleep!  You have cared for me long enough.  Now I am going to care for you.”

With loving words she soothed her, calming her as though she had been a child in nightmare terror, and gradually a certain peace began to still the horror in Dinah’s soul.  An unmistakable drowsiness was stealing over her, a merciful lethargy lulling the sensibilities that had been so acutely tried.  Her weakness was merging into a sense of almost blissful repose.  She was no longer conscious of the anguish of the cold.  Neither did the darkness trouble her.  And the comfort of Isabel’s arms was rest to her spirit.

As one who wanders in a golden maze she began to dream strange dreams that yet were not woven by the hand of sleep.  Dimly she saw as down a long perspective a knight in golden armour climbing, ever climbing, the peaks of Paradise, from which, as from an eagle’s nest, she watched his difficult but untiring progress.  She thought he halted somewhat in the ascent—­which was unlike Apollo, who walked as walk the gods with a gait both arrogant and assured.  But still he came on, persistently, resolutely, carrying his golden shield before him.

His visor was down, and she wished that he would raise it.  She yearned for the sight of that splendid face with its knightly features and blue, fiery eyes.  She pictured it to herself as he came, but somehow it did not seem to fit that patient climbing figure.

And then as he gradually drew nearer, the thought came to her to go and meet him, and she started to run down the slope.  She reached him.  She gave him both her hands.  She was ready—­she was eager—­to be drawn into his arms.

But he did not so draw her.  To her amazement he only bowed himself before her and stretched forth the shield he bore that it might cover them both.

“It is Mr. Greatheart!” she said to herself in wonder.  “Of course—­it is Mr. Greatheart!”