That no one might plead ignorance (for there was up to the date no written record) Aurora set herself the task of reducing the traditions which had been handed down to writing.  When the manuscript was at last completed it occupied her months to transcribe copies of it for circulation; and she still continued to make copies, which were sent by messengers and by the travelling merchants to the markets, and even across the sea.  Apart from its intrinsically elevating character, the mere mental labour expended on this work had undoubtedly strengthened a naturally fine intellect.  As she said, it was the faith, the hope that that faith would one day be recognised, which gave her so much influence over others.

Upon this one thing only they differed; Felix did not oppose, did not even argue, he was simply untouched.  It was not that he believed in anything else, nor that he doubted; he was merely indifferent.  He had too great a natural aptitude for the physical sciences, and too clear a mind, to accept that which was taught by the one or the other of the two chief opposing parties.  Nor could he join in the ridicule and derision of the gay courtiers, for the mystery of existence had impressed him deeply while wandering alone in the forest.  But he stood aloof; he smiled and listened, unconvinced; like the wild creatures of the forest, he had no ears for these matters.  He loved Aurora, that was all.

But he felt the influence just the same; with all his powers of mind and contempt of superstitions in others, he could not at times shake off the apprehensions aroused by untoward omens, as when he stepped upon the adder in the woods.  Aurora knew nothing of such things; her faith was clear and bright like a star; nothing could alarm her, or bring uneasiness of mind.  This beautiful calm, not cold, but glowing with hope and love, soothed him.

That evening, with her hope and love, with her message of trust, she almost persuaded him.  He almost turned to what she had so long taught.  He almost repented of that hardness of heart, that unutterable distance, as it were, between him and other men, which lay at the bottom of his proposed expedition.  He opened his lips to confess to her his purpose, and had he done so assuredly she would have persuaded him from it.  But in the very act of speaking, he hesitated.  It was characteristic of him to do so.  Whether she instinctively felt that there was something concealed from her, or guessed that the discontent she knew he had so long endured was coming to a point, or feared lest what she had told him might drive him to some ill-considered act, she begged him with all the power of her love to do nothing hasty, or in despair, nothing that would separate them.  He threw his arms around her, he pressed her closely to him, he trembled with the passion and the struggle within him.

“My lady calls for you, Mademoiselle,” said a voice; it was Aurora’s maid who had kept watch.  “She has asked for you some time since.  Someone is coming into the garden!”