Her thoughts dwelt with that white picture without. That poignant feeling of happiness that she had almost lost during the past few days, arose in her with a hitherto unknown might.
And now the sick man began to speak.
"You have always been good to me, Mary," he said. "You have always had patience with me."
"Ah, don't speak so," she murmured.
"And I wish I could say as full of assurance as you could before the throne of God: 'Father, I have been true to the duty which you have allotted to me.'"
Her hand quivered in his. A feeling of revulsion smothered the gentleness of their mood. His words had struck her as a reproach.
Fulfillment of duty! That was the great law to which all human kind was subject for the sake of God. This law had joined her hand to his, had accompanied her into the chastity of her bridal bed, and had kept its vigil through the years by her hearth and in her heart. And thus love itself had not been difficult to her, for it was commanded to her and consecrated before the face of God.
And he? He wished for nothing more, knew nothing more. Indeed, what lies beyond duty would probably have seemed burdensome to him, if not actually sinful.
But there was something more! She knew it now. She had seen it in that glance, moist with yearning, lost in the light.
There was something great and ecstatic and all-powerful, something before which she quailed like a child who must go into the dark, something that she desired with every nerve and fibre.