“All my magnificence had gone from me.  I walked up and down our rock cell, and outside was the darkling sea and a light to the southward that flared and passed and came again.

“‘We must get out of this place,’ I said over and over.  ’I have made my choice, and I will have no hand in these troubles.  I will have nothing of this war.  We have taken our lives out of all these things.  This is no refuge for us.  Let us go.’

“And the next day we were already in flight from the war that covered the world.

“And all the rest was Flight—­all the rest was Flight.”

He mused darkly.

“How much was there of it?”

He made no answer.

“How many days?”

His face was white and drawn and his hands were clenched.  He took no heed of my curiosity.

I tried to draw him back to his story with questions.

“Where did you go?” I said.

“When?”

“When you left Capri.”

“South-west,” he said, and glanced at me for a second.  “We went in a boat.”

“But I should have thought an aeroplane?”

“They had been seized.”

I questioned him no more.  Presently I thought he was beginning again.  He broke out in an argumentative monotone: 

“But why should it be?  If, indeed, this battle, this slaughter and stress is life, why have we this craving for pleasure and beauty?  If there is no refuge, if there is no place of peace, and if all our dreams of quiet places are a folly and a snare, why have we such dreams?  Surely it was no ignoble cravings, no base intentions, had brought us to this; it was Love had isolated us.  Love had come to me with her eyes and robed in her beauty, more glorious than all else in life, in the very shape and colour of life, and summoned me away.  I had silenced all the voices, I had answered all the questions—­I had come to her.  And suddenly there was nothing but War and Death!”

I had an inspiration.  “After all,” I said, “it could have been only a dream.”

“A dream!” he cried, flaming upon me, “a dream—­when, even now—­”

For the first time he became animated.  A faint flush crept into his cheek.  He raised his open hand and clenched it, and dropped it to his knee.  He spoke, looking away from me, and for all the rest of the time he looked away.  “We are but phantoms!” he said, “and the phantoms of phantoms, desires like cloud-shadows and wills of straw that eddy in the wind; the days pass, use and wont carry us through as a train carries the shadow of its lights—­so be it!  But one thing is real and certain, one thing is no dream-stuff, but eternal and enduring.  It is the centre of my life, and all other things about it are subordinate or altogether vain.  I loved her, that woman of a dream.  And she and I are dead together!

“A dream!  How can it be a dream, when it drenched a living life with unappeasable sorrow, when it makes all that I have lived for and cared for, worthless and unmeaning?