Helena drew him to the edge of the cliff. He crushed her hand, drawing slightly back. But it pleased her to feel the grip on her hand becoming unbearable. They stood right on the edge, to see the smooth cliff slope into the mist, under which the sea stirred noisily.
“Shall we walk over, then?” said Siegmund, glancing downwards. Helena’s heart stood still a moment at the idea, then beat heavily. How could he play with the idea of death, and the five great days in front? She was afraid of him just then.
“Come away, dear,” she pleaded.
He would, then, forgo the few consummate days! It was bitterness to her to think so.
“Come away, dear!” she repeated, drawing him slowly to the path.
“You are not afraid?” he asked.
“Not afraid, no….” Her voice had that peculiar, reedy, harsh quality that made him shiver.
“It is too easy a way,” he said satirically.
She did not take in his meaning.
“And five days of our own before us, Siegmund!” she scolded. “The mist is Lethe. It is enough for us if its spell lasts five days.”