She laughed again. “Of course I am sure. The world of spirits, as I think, is the real world. The rest is a nightmare; at least, it seems like a nightmare, because we don’t know the beginning or the end of the dream.”
“The old Egyptians thought something like that,” said Morris reflectively. “They only lived to die.”
“But we,” she answered, “should only die to live, and that is why I try not to be afraid. I daresay, however, I mean the same as they did, only you do not seem to have put their thought quite clearly.”
“You are right; I meant that for them death was but a door.”
“That is better, I think,” she said. “That was their thought, and that is my thought; and,” she added, searching his face, “perhaps your thought also.”
“Yes,” he answered, “though somehow you concentrate it; I have never seen things, or, rather, this thing, quite so sharply.”
“Because you have never been in a position to see them; they have not been brought home to you. Or your mind may have wanted an interpreter. Perhaps I am that interpreter—for the moment.” Then she added: “Were you afraid just now? Don’t tell me if you had rather not, only I should like to compare sensations. I was—more than on the ship. I admit it.”
“No,” he answered; “I suppose that I was too excited.”
“What were you thinking of when we bumped against the rocks?” she asked again.
“Well, now that you mention it,” he replied, rubbing his forehead with his left hand like a man newly awakened, “I could think of nothing but that song of yours, which you sang upon the vessel. Everything grew dark for an instant, and through the darkness I remembered the song.”