“You do remember, then!” he said very softly; “even the names!”
“And Silvatela,” I murmured, moisture rising unaccountably to my eyes. I saw the room in mist.
Julius stood before me like a figure carved in stone. For a long time he spoke no word. Gradually the curious disturbance in my own breast sank and passed. The mist lifted and disappeared. I felt myself slipping back into To-day on the ebb of some shattering experience, already half forgotten.
“You remember,” he repeated presently, his voice impassioned but firmly quiet, “the temptation—and—the failure...?”
I nodded, almost involuntarily again.
“And still hold to you—both,” I murmured.
He held me with his eyes for quite a minute. Though he used no word or gesture, I felt his deep delight.
“Because we must,” he answered presently; “because we must.”
He had moved so close to me that I felt his breath upon my face. I could have sworn for a second that I gazed into the shining eyes of that other and audacious figure, for it was the voice of Concerighé, yet the face of Julius. Past and present seemed to join hands, mingling confusedly in my mind. Cause and effect whispered across the centuries, linking us together. And the voice continued deeply, as if echoing down hollow aisles of stone.
I heard the words in the shadowy spaces of that old-world crypt, rather than among the plush furniture of these Edinburgh lodgings.