Lucy beheld the tears streaming hot from his face on the child’s cot.  She marvelled at such excess of emotion.  But when his chest heaved, and the extremity of mortal anguish appeared to have seized him, her heart sank, and she tried to get him in her arms.  He turned away from her and went to the window.  A half-moon was over the lake.

“Look!” he said, “do you remember our rowing there one night, and we saw the shadow of the cypress?  I wish I could have come early to-night that we might have had another row, and I have heard you sing there!”

“Darling!” said she, “will it make you happier if I go with you now?  I will.”

“No, Lucy.  Lucy, you are brave!”

“Oh, no! that I’m not.  I thought so once.  I know I am not now.”

“Yes! to have lived—­the child on your heart—­and never to have uttered a complaint!—­you are brave.  O my Lucy! my wife! you that have made me man!  I called you a coward.  I remember it.  I was the coward—­I the wretched vain fool!  Darling!  I am going to leave you now.  You are brave, and you will bear it.  Listen:  in two days, or three, I may be back—­back for good, if you will accept me.  Promise me to go to bed quietly.  Kiss the child for me, and tell him his father has seen him.  He will learn to speak soon.  Will he soon speak, Lucy?”

Dreadful suspicion kept her speechless; she could only clutch one arm of his with both her hands.

“Going?” she presently gasped.

“For two or three days.  No more—­I hope.”

“To-night?”

“Yes.  Now.”

“Going now? my husband!” her faculties abandoned her.

“You will be brave, my Lucy!”

“Richard! my darling husband!  Going?  What is it takes you from me?” But questioning no further, she fell on her knees, and cried piteously to him to stay—­not to leave them.  Then she dragged him to the little sleeper, and urged him to pray by his side, and he did, but rose abruptly from his prayer when he had muttered a few broken words—­she praying on with tight-strung nerves, in the faith that what she said to the interceding Mother above would be stronger than human hands on him.  Nor could he go while she knelt there.

And he wavered.  He had not reckoned on her terrible suffering.  She came to him, quiet.  “I knew you would remain.”  And taking his hand, innocently fondling it:  “Am I so changed from her he loved?  You will not leave me, dear?” But dread returned, and the words quavered as she spoke them.

He was almost vanquished by the loveliness of her womanhood.  She drew his hand to her heart, and strained it there under one breast.  “Come:  lie on my heart,” she murmured with a smile of holy sweetness.

He wavered more, and drooped to her, but summoning the powers of hell, kissed her suddenly, cried the words of parting, and hurried to the door.  It was over in an instant.  She cried out his name, clinging to him wildly, and was adjured to be brave, for he would be dishonoured if he did not go.  Then she was shaken off.