And there were very many other paths, and many faces; and on all the faces suffering was written, so that there was a terrible beauty and refinement in the forest. You see it was not the Forest of Sin, or reckless Self-indulgence, but the Forest of Silence and Pain, that do not allow of them.
Now I said that the Spirit’s robes were transparent; they reflected, or rather revealed, things that were beyond. But all this Deborah took in vaguely, or perhaps it seemed to her she had been used to looking through that figure all her life, so there was nothing very wonderful in the sights it showed.
But the face Deborah was not so sure about. It was a face as perfectly moulded as if it were cut in marble. There was no trace of human passion or emotion on it. A broad brow, a calm eye, a straight nose with finely-cut nostrils, a mouth of exquisite beauty, if somewhat coldly drawn, and a well-shaped chin.
The whole figure was one of grace and calmness, strangely out of keeping with the human agony around. Why, even now, through the clear robe appeared a face of such exceeding torture that it sent a sickly feeling to the heart. Then suddenly the white robes turned to a dusky black and hid the pale, hopeless features.
“Don’t you know me, Deborah?”
“Well,” thought Deborah, “it’s just as if someone were playing the ‘Frühlingslied’ backwards. I know that voice, and yet I don’t.” But aloud she said,—
“I expect if you were to tell me who you are I should perhaps remember you.”
At this the Spirit laughed, and Deborah started, for of all places in which to hear such a sound that seemed the most unlikely, and moreover, the alteration in the face was so complete that it was almost dazzling.
“This is a very heartless Spirit,” thought she. “I could not have laughed in this wood, not for anything. The agony is too sacred.”
And, as if interpreting her thoughts, the Spirit answered, “Let us walk out of the Forest on to the Moors. They are lonely and cold, and the night wind is keen. We can hear, and see, and understand better there.”