As she crossed the room to light the lamp, the half-conscious thought that had lain buried in her mind for weeks stirred uneasily and leapt up, alive and clamant. Instantly she acquiesced in its demands. If that was the only way out, that way must be taken.
The little lamp on the wall burned well.
“Which do you think is more companionable—a clock that ticks and makes a noise, or a lamp that burns and makes a light?” she asked.
“Oh—a lamp. I love light, and silence doesn’t trouble me a bit. But I would like to hear you sing. Sing softly—just for you and me to hear.”
It was a Neapolitan song she had learned, a barcarolle that swayed easily with the movement of a swung hammock or of a little boat on gentle, regular waves. It told of a love that was constant, of a love that would hold through all the sorrows of life, that would survive old age, and cleave its way through the darkness of death.
And if, when I am dead, my heart
Turns into dust, to dust my face,
I’ll ride upon the swiftest wind
And find your burial place.
“Again,” he said, when she had finished.
So she sang it through a second time, her sweet, low voice vibrating with passion.
“Love must last—it will,” he said; “it is the only thing that can never die.”
He turned over on his side and closed his eyes.