Cecily felt it,, too, he knew, for she spoke one evening in the lamplight, with averted eyes.
"Dearest one, it sounds a silly question, but why are you building the bridge?"
"Because it's my work, Cecily, to build bridges." He felt what she meant.
"Dearest one, if the bridge were to fall, you would be heartbroken, would n't you?"
"I 'm afraid I should, Cecily."
"Why, dearest one? Is it because you are proud of your bridge? That you want generations to remember you by your bridge?"
"No, Cecily," he thought seriously, "it is n't that. I—I 'm just a helper of the Master Mason, and if the bridge were to fall, I should feel I was a poor, an unworthy helper. That's how I feel, Cecily. That's why I should be heart-broken."
She put down the sewing work she was doing, and came to him, her eyes misty. She took his hands. She knelt by his side.
"I know, my lover," she whispered, a little huskily, "but your bridge will never fall. Believe it, dearest one. Believe it night and day."
But the bridge bothered him. And all her wise courage could not still its silent clamor. He could watch the ant-like battalions of men as they laid stone on stone, chanting in the guttural Chibcha as the bridge-builders of Persia chanted when they built the Perl-i-Khaju at Ispahan. But above their voices came the silent voice of the bridge, loud as thunder. Until he could stand it no longer.