'May be,' she whispered, 'it is what you call hell I enter, every year once, when my dream comes.'
Appalled he heard. 'You shall not, Diadyomene, you shall not! Come to me, call me, and what heart of man can brave, by my soul I will, and keep you safe.'
She found his eyes again, within them only love, and she rallied.
'It is only a dream,' she said. 'And yet to escape it I would give up many choice moments of glorious sea life.'
She eyed him hard, and clenched her hands. 'I would give up,' she said, 'the strongest desire my heart now holds; ay, in the dear moment of its fulfilment, I would give up even that, if so a certain night of the year might pass ever dreamless and untroubled.'
'So would not I! though I think my dream cannot be less terrible than yours; though I know my desire cannot be less dear. Diadyomene, what is the desire of your heart?'
She would not say; and she meant with her downcast, shy eyes to mislead him. But in vain: too humble was he to presume.
'Diadyomene, what is your dream?'
'I cannot tell,' she said, 'for it passes so that my brain holds but an echo of it, and my heart dread. And what remains of it cannot be told, for words are too poor and feeble to express it.'
He saw her thinking, sighing, and shuddering.