"Over that hill," he said, "at 11.59;—curious—just a minute before midnight—I watched it grow ever since it was a tender crescent."
The full moon rose, a red disc, blood red, emerging from this world of strife; it ascended, taking its hues from man's yellow gold; then on—freed from terrestrial mists, excelsior to purer skies.
"See," he said, "a true circle; no beginning and no end. The emblem of eternity!"
Madeleine was resting her weary head on her arms as they lay folded on the window-sill. Silvery rays fell through the window and played around her hair.
"Hush! let her rest. Ma sainte! See now—that halo of light around her head—a vision." He spoke with an effort, but on that early Sunday morning he told me how deeply he loved Madeleine.
The sun rose once more on Claude; never again the moon. He was still sitting on that chair when his head dropped to move no more. We were all present. Madeleine knelt by his side and buried her face in the grey rug she had so often laid across his knees. She held his lifeless hand and wept in silent anguish until we led her away.
* * * * * *
Did she know, poor Madeleine, that she too had but a few years to live? that the germs of the unrelenting disease which had carried off her friend, her lover, were at work within her?
I was with her when she too closed her eyes,—so peacefully, serenely. It was a vision of love that passed away from amongst us.
"I am quite happy. You will lay me by his side?"