Without hesitation the Breton once again entered the Palace of Tai Lin, and went quickly through its halls and courts until he came to the apartments of his Excellency’s wife. For a moment he hesitated at the oval silken-draped doorway, then putting the curtains aside he stepped softly in.
By the screen, as if it had never been moved, stood his chair, beside it the high ebony table with its roseleaf marble top, and in front of it with her face toward the screen sat the wife, as she had sat many months before.
For a moment the Breton pressed back against the curved lintel, then went softly over and stood beside her. She did not move nor give any sign of recognition as the Breton approached, only her little hands folded in her lap pressed together more tightly, until her finger tips became darkly red. It is not known how long this silence lasted, for, though time may never cease, there are moments in the horologue of love, which are not counted.
“I have come back,” said the Breton finally in soft monotonous tones.
At the sound of his voice, the wife’s hands trembled and relaxed; a slight feverish flush diffused her face, but she gave no sign that she heard him.
“I have come back to you,” he repeated.
A tremor shot through her, and a faint flush darkened and spread to brow and to neck.
“I understand it all now,” he continued vaguely. “You remember when your hand touched my robe? At first I thought it was the hand of God, for it seemed as though I were in heaven. Then came another thought and I cast you aside. For this I have suffered. In every soft sound of night have I heard you fall again and again, without a cry, just a silken crash. Even God would not heed my prayers to drown that sound. In the day I beggared time before the Gateway. By night I prayed, did penance, and sleeplessly watched for the reluctant shadows of dawn, a dawn that punished me with a thousand memories; with the larks’ song a-fluttering from their bamboo cages; with flowers whose fragrance choked and whose colours burned my eyes; with laughter and the dreadful crinkling of silk. Again at night it was prayer and penance or pain, for the river murmured with the tones of your voice, and the stars stole their lights from your eyes and looked in reproachful pain down upon me.”
Presently the Breton took from the bosom of his robe the manuscripts left by the Unknown.
“Three days ago I found these secretly beside my crucifix”; and he looked dumbly at the envelopes he half extended toward her.