Antoine had sung his last song. He had waked in the night with a start of pain, and by the time the sun was halting at noon above the Rose Tree Mine, he had begun a journey, the record of which no man has ever truly told, neither its beginning nor its end; because that which is of the spirit refuseth to be interpreted by the flesh. Some signs there be, but they are brief and shadowy; the awe of It is hidden in the mind of him that goeth out lonely unto God.
When the call goes forth, not wife nor child nor any other can hold the wayfarer back, though he may loiter for an instant on the brink. The poor medicaments which Angelique brings avail not; these soothing hands and healing tones, they pass through clouds of the middle place between heaven and earth to Antoine. It is only when the second midnight comes that, with conscious, but pensive and far-off, eyes, he says to her: "Angelique, my wife."
For reply her lips pressed his cheek, and her fingers hungered for his neck. Then: "Is there pain now Antoine?"
"There is no pain, Angelique."
He closed his eyes slowly; her lips framed an ave. "The mine," he said, "the mine—until the spring."
"Yes, Antoine, until the spring."
"Have you candles—many candles, Angelique?"
"There are many, my husband."
"The ground is as iron; one cannot dig, and the water under the ice is cruel—is it not so, Angelique?"
"No axe could break the ground, and the water is cruel," she said.