He made a gesture towards the chaos which covered shore and hill.
"Can I leave the work which calls me, knowing what I know?" he asked. "Paul has put my duty into words. What I have suffered, others are suffering yet. Would you think well of me, if I left it?"
She looked at him with a smile that told of appreciation, approval, of something (or was hope a lying glass?) more than these.
"No!" she said quietly. "No!" She hesitated a moment.
"And when I have found my father, eased his mind, delivered to him his grandchild whom he owes to you, rested, made myself strong to work, will you come for me to do my part? Will you come—then?"
As the dawn rose over Messina's city of the dead, in John Aylmer's heart rose the dawn of hope fulfilled. Her eyes? What message did they not give? He read it as plainly as he knew he would read it at their next meeting—from her lips.
He lifted her hand. His moustache swept it.
"Till then, Claire," he whispered. "Till then, Beloved."