The house was all dark, but the many tall white flowers, like a bright vapour rising from earth, clung to the air above the beds.  Leaning against the tree Miltoun gave himself to memory.

From the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a hedgehog, or some small beast of night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking its candle flame.  And something in Miltoun’s heart took wings after it, searching for the warmth and light of his blown candle of love.  Then, in the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through long grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter; but nothing could he see that should make that homeless sound.  And the sense of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved on his scalp.  If God would light the moon or stars, and let him see!  If God would end the expectation of this night, let one wan glimmer down into her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast!  But it stayed dark, and the homeless noise never ceased.  The weird thought came to Miltoun that it was made by his own heart, wandering out there, trying to feel warm again.  He closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not his heart, but indeed some external presence, unconsoled.  And stretching his hands out he moved forward to arrest that sound.  As he reached the railing, it ceased.  And he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of light blanching the grass.

And, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped.  His fingernails bent and broke against the iron railing without his knowing.  It was not as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion.  Profounder, more terrible, was this rising up within him of yearning for love—­as if, now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark grass beneath those dark boughs.  And if victorious—­what then?  He stole back under the tree.

He could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight; he could see the white flowers quite plainly now, a pale watch of blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning, hardly any longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle.  His face and hands were sticky with the honey-dew, slowly, invisibly distilling from the lime-tree.  He bent down and felt the grass.  And suddenly there came over him the certainty of her presence.  Yes, she was there—­out on the verandah!  He could see her white figure from head to foot; and, not realizing that she could not see him, he expected her to utter some cry.  But no sound came from her, no gesture; she turned back into the house.  Miltoun ran forward to the railing.  But there, once more, he stopped—­unable to think, unable to feel; as it were abandoned by himself.  And he suddenly found his hand up at his mouth, as though there were blood there to be staunched that had escaped from his heart.