And then, while she still gazed upon the glittering, princely form, he put up a hand and lifted the visor.  And she saw the kindly, steadfast eyes all kindled and alight with a glory before which instinctively she hid her own.  Never—­no, never—­had she dreamed before that any man could look at her so!  It was not passion that those eyes held for her;—­it was worship.

She stood with bated breath and throbbing heart, waiting, waiting, as one in the presence of a vision, who longs—­yet fears—­to look.  And while she waited she knew that the sun was shining upon them both with a glowing warmth that filled her soul abrim with such a rapture as she had never known before.

“How wonderful!” she murmured to herself.  “How wonderful!”

And then at last she summoned courage to look up, and all in a moment her vision was shattered.  The darkness was all about her again; Greatheart was gone.

CHAPTER XXI

THE RETURN

What happened after the passing of her vision Dinah never fully knew, so slack had become her grip upon material things.  Her spirit seemed to be wandering aimlessly about the mountain-side while her body lay in icy chains within that miserable shelter.  Of Isabel’s presence she was no longer even dimly aware, and she knew neither fear nor pain, only a wide desolation of emptiness that encompassed her as atmosphere encompasses the world.

Sometimes she fancied that the sound of voices came muffled through the fog that hung impenetrably upon the great slope.  And when this fancy caught her, her spirit drifted back very swiftly to the near neighbourhood of that inert and frozen body that lay so helpless in the dark.  For that strange freedom of the spirit seemed to her to be highly dangerous and in a fashion wrong.  It would be a terrible thing if they found and buried the body, and the spirit were left alone to wander for ever homeless on that desolate mountain-side.  She could not imagine a fate more awful.

At the same time, being free from the body, she knew no physical pain, and she shrank from returning before she need, knowing well the anguish of suffering that awaited her.  The desolation and loneliness made her unhappy in a vague and not very comprehensible fashion, but she did not suffer actively.  That would come later when return became imperative.  Till then she flitted to and fro, intangible as gossamer, elusive as the snow.  She wondered what Apollo would say if he could see her thus.  Even he would fail to catch her now.  She pictured the strong arms closing upon her, and clasping—­emptiness.  That thought made her a little cold, and sent her floating back to make sure that the lifeless body was still there.

And as she went, drifting through the silence, there came to her the thought that Scott would be unutterably shocked if they brought her back to him dead.  It was strange how the memory of him haunted her that night.  It almost seemed as if his spirit were out there in the great waste, seeking hers.