They had flashes of strange savage poetry, these crude yet complex souls. Sister Margaret, who was still liable to be startled, murmured feebly, "But—"
"Leave me in peace!" with a cry like that of a wounded animal.
The matron gently touched the novice's arm and drew her away. "I will write to him," she whispered.
Night fell, but sleep fell only for some. Sarah Kretznow tossed in a hell of loneliness. Ah, surely her husband had not forgotten her—surely she would not lie thus till death—that far-off death her strong religious instinct would forbid her hastening! She had gone into the Refuge to save him the constant sight of her helplessness and the cost of her keep. Was she now to be cut off forever from the sight of his strength?
The next day he came—by special invitation. His face was sallow, rimmed with swarthy hair; his under lip was sensuous. He hung his head, half veiling the shifty eyes.
Sister Margaret ran to tell his wife. Sarah's face sparkled.
"Put up the screen!" she murmured, and in its shelter drew her husband's head to her bosom and pressed her lips to his hair.
But he, surprised into indiscretion, murmured: "I thought thou wast dying."
A beautiful light came into the gray eyes.
"Thy heart told thee right, Herzel, my life. I was dying—for a sight of thee."