Not for a moment had he lowered his gaze from her face. Merely to behold her again and to hear her voice, whatever her words might be, was happiness enough. The accord between them was so perfect that there was no need for questions, answers, news, explanations, reminiscences, plans, greetings, farewells. But she was waiting for him to speak; and at last, in the same dreamy tone as before, he pointed to her nun's dress and said:
"This wonderful thing came to pass, did it not, on the eighth of July, twenty months after you went away? That day was the feast of Saint Isabel of Portugal. It was also the last day of a novena I had been making to this very end. On that day, as I sat in the chapel, I heard women's voices, far-off and sweet, chanting the Divine Office; and I knew that this miracle had come to pass."
"You were not mistaken," she said, in low tones. "I awoke to my vocation on the eighth of July, the year but one after I left this place."
Minutes passed before either of them spoke again. Not that time and distance had been able to estrange them. They were one in heart and mind as they had never been before. But Isabel's mood had swiftly become attuned to Antonio's. It was enough to be at his side on their old battle-field and to know how perfect was their peace. For a long while they stood speechless with the great light of the Atlantic sparkling before their eyes and the great music of the cascade resounding in their ears. Antonio was the first to break the silence.
"Happiness is not the principal thing," he said, still gazing at the sea. "But I should like to know that you are happy."
"I am happy," she answered in a firm voice. "Entirely happy."
"For that," he said simply, "I thank God."
Another silence followed, longer than the other. At last she said:
"You are weary. You must sit down. Our time together is very short, so let me say what I ought to say."
They sat down on the boulder.