“Joe,” he said half in awe, “to put that into music, you would have to put Eleanor into music. Then—then—what a symphony you would have!”
Barnes sprang to his feet.
“Good God, man,” he cried, “what brought you to this spot?”
“Don’t you hear it?” persisted Langdon. “The world all dark and cavernous—like those days in Paris; then her voice calling—far in the distance; then a low morning song, like a morning prayer; then her voice coming nearer until, in a wild medley of song, her presence breaks upon the world and the world awakes—as a soul awakes.”
Standing very erect, his head back, Langdon faced the East.
And Barnes facing Langdon saw his picture fade—fade—until some demon in him made him feel for a moment that it would be right for him to battle with this man in defense of his own. How simple it would be if here on this hill-top in the early morning the two might grapple until one was left supreme. Langdon turned and caught a flash in the eyes of this other which drove the music from his soul.
“What’s the matter?” he exclaimed. “You look feverish.”
Barnes did not answer for a moment. He very deliberately sat down. He felt ashamed of this primeval instinct. If in the days to follow he couldn’t show any better control over himself than this, he had better find it out now.
“Sit down, Langdon,” he said. “What got you up so early?”
“The dawn,” answered Langdon.