He took them in his and held them firmly. They looked into each other’s eyes in silence.
“Speak to me,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” he said. “You have more to tell. And it has always been my way to think long and steadily, and then to speak—and to speak to the point. You and I are facing an awful mystery; but at least we are facing it together.”
Suddenly she felt herself before a judgment-seat.
“Oh, Nigel,” she whispered, “I am afraid.”
“You need not be,” he answered and, bending, laid his lips upon her hand. “I have read Nigel Tintagel’s letter.”
“And do you remember?”
“I remember nothing. But my soul is slowly struggling up into the light. After long years in outer darkness, at last I am finding the way home to God.”
Again he laid his lips upon her hands; but they were cold as death, and her heart trembled.
“Tell me the rest,” he said.