“There is no long time needed,” said Damans.  In her voice there was no anger nor shame nor poignant grief, but she spoke as in a dream, and her face when she turned it towards him was strange once more, like the face of Fatal Love rising clear from the crash of its universe.  She had drunk the half of a bitter cup, and the remainder she must drink; but when all was said, she was going, after weary months, to see the face of the man she loved.  Philip Sidney lifted the latch of the door, saw her enter, and let it fall behind her.

The room in which she found herself was ruddy with firelight, the flames coloring the marble chimney-piece and causing faint shadows to chase one another across an arras embroidered with a hunting scene.  Upon a heavy table were thrown a cloak and mask.

The man who had worn them turned from the window, came forward a few paces, and stood still.  Damans put forth her hand, and leaned for strength against the chimney-piece—­a beautiful woman in the heart of the glow from the fire.  At first she said no word, for she was thinking dully.  “If he comes no nearer, it must be true.  If he crosses not the shadow on the floor between us, it must be true.”  At last she asked, in a low voice,

“Is it true?”

In the profound silence that followed she made a step forward out of the red glow towards the bar of shadow.  Ferne stayed her with a gesture of his hand.

“Yes, it is true,” he said.  “It is true, unless, indeed, there be no answer to Pilate’s ‘What is truth?’ For myself, I walk in a whirling world and a darkness shot with fire.  Did I do this thing?  Yea, verily, I did!  Then, seeing that I dwell not in Edmund Spenser’s faerie-land nor believe that an enchanter’s wand may make white seem black and black seem white, I now see myself nakedly as I am,—­a man who knew not himself; a sword, jewel—­hilted, with a blade of lath; a gay masker whom, his vizard torn away, the servants thrust forth into the cold!  I am my own assassin, forger, abhorred fool!”

He paused, and the embers fell, growing gray in the silence.  At last he spoke again, in a changed voice.  “Thy brother, lady....  There will not lack those to tell thee that I tripped him with my foot, that I slew him with my dagger.  It is not true, and yet I count myself his murderer....  See the shadow at thy feet, the heavy shadow that lies between you and me!...  How may I say that I would have given my life for him who was thy brother and my charge, whom for his own sake I loved, when I gave not my life, when I bought my life with his and many another’s?...  Thou dost well to say no word, but I would that thou didst not press thy hands against thy heart, nor look at me with those eyes.  A little longer and I will let thee go, and Sidney’s sister will comfort thee and be kind to thee.”

“What else?” said Damaris, beneath her breath.  “What else?  O God! no more!”