Some one was leaning down from a great height to call to me in the depths; and the voice was wonderfully sweet, but faint, faint, because the height was so very high, and the depths so very great.

And still the voice called and called, and I felt sorry that I could not answer, because, as I say, the voice was troubled, and wonderfully sweet.

And, little by little, it seemed that it grew nearer, this voice; was it descending to me in these depths of blackness, or was I being lifted up to the heights where, I knew, blackness could not be?  Ay, indeed, I was being lifted, for I could feel a hand upon my brow—­a smooth, cool hand that touched my cheek, and brushed the hair from my forehead; a strong, gentle hand it was, with soft fingers, and it was lifting me up and up from the loathly depths which seemed more black and more horrible the farther I drew from them.

And so I heard the voice nearer, and ever nearer, until I could distinguish words, and the voice had tears in it, and the words were very tender.

“Peter—­speak!—­speak to me, Peter!”

“Charmian?” said I, within myself; “why, truly, whose hand but hers could have lifted me out of that gulf of death, back to light and life?” Yet I did not speak aloud, for I had no mind to, yet a while.

“Ah! speak to me—­speak to me, Peter!  How can you lie there so still and pale?”

And now her arms were about me, strong and protecting, and my head was drawn down upon her bosom.

“Oh, Peter!—­my Peter!”

Nay, but was this Charmian, the cold, proud Charmian?  Truly I had never heard that thrill in her voice before—­could this indeed be Charmian?  And lying thus, with my head on this sweet pillow, I could hear her heart whispering to me, and it seemed that it was striving to tell me something—­striving, striving to tell me something, could I but understand—­ah! could I but understand!

“I waited for you so long—­so long, Peter—­and the supper is all spoiled—­a rabbit, Peter—­you liked rabbit, and—­and oh, God!  I want you—­don’t you hear me, Peter—­I want you—­want you!” and now her cheek was pressed to mine, and her lips were upon my hair, and upon my brow—­her lips!  Was this indeed Charmian, and was I Peter Vibart?  Ah, if I could but know what it was her heart was trying to tell me, so quickly and passionately!

And while I lay listening, listening, something hot splashed down upon my cheek, and then another, and another; her bosom heaved tumultuously, and instinctively, raising my arms, I clasped them about her.

“Don’t!” I said, and my voice was a whisper; “don’t, Charmian!”

For a moment her clasp tightened about me, she was all tenderness and clinging warmth; then I heard a sudden gasp, her arms loosened and fell away, and so I presently raised my head, and, supporting myself upon my hand, looked at her.  And then I saw that her cheeks were burning.