She stared at him, voiceless.
“When you spoke to me—when you spoke to me, my Music—I was glad then that I could not see, because I wished to listen only, always.”
“Philippe,” she prayed. “Don’t, don’t send me away, Philippe.”
“We are mad,” he said. “Come closer.”
And once more she went toward him across that sunlit space, to where he stood, tall and splendid and terrible. “Closer still,” he said. “Closer still—still closer. Why do you weep, my Laughter?”
“Hold me—hold me—don’t let me go.”
“Blindness,” he said. “It is just a little word, a little, dark, ugly word to frighten foolish children. Are you beautiful, my Loveliness? Never, never could you be beautiful as I dream you!” He touched her lips with his brown fingers.
“Smile!” he said. And she smiled.
“What is blindness to me who can touch your lips to laughter?” he asked her, bending his black head until his lips swept her lashes. “What is blindness to me, who can touch your eyes to tears?”
The sunlight fell across the bright hair of the last of the fighting Carters—he could feel it warm against his lips and suddenly he laughed aloud.