Yes—now there was a sound.
* * * * *
Midnight had struck—and Amaryllis, sleeping peacefully, had been dreaming of John.
"Oh! dearest," she whispered drowsily, as but half awakened, she felt herself being drawn into a pair of strong arms—"Oh!—you know I love that scent of cloves—Oh!—I love you, John!"
CHAPTER IX
When Amaryllis awoke in the morning her head rested on John's breast, and his arm encircled her. She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. He was still asleep—and his face was infinitely sad. She bent over and kissed him with shy tenderness, but he did not move, he only sighed heavily as he lay there.
Why should he look so sad, when they were so happy?
She thought of loving things he had said to her at dinner—and then the afterwards!—and she thrilled with emotion. Life seemed a glorious thing and—But John was sad, of course, because he must go away. The recollection of this fact came upon her suddenly like a blast of cold air. They must part. War hung there with its hideous shadow, and John must be conscious of it even in his dreams, that was why he sighed.
The irony of things—now—when—Oh! how cruel that he must go.
Then John awoke with a shudder, and saw her there leaning over him with a new soft love light in her eyes, and he realised that the anguish of his calvary had only just begun.