“Hint at them.”
Beatrice looked at him earnestly. Their eyes met. In hers there was a glance of anxious inquiry, as though her soul were putting forth a question by that look which was stronger than words. In his there was a glance of anxious expectancy, as though his soul were speaking unto hers, saying: “Tell all; let me know if you suspect that of which I am afraid to think.”
“We have met with ships at sea,” she resumed, in low, deliberate tones.
“Yes.”
“Sometimes we have caught up with them, we have exchanged signals, we have sailed in sight of one another for hours or for days, holding intercourse all the while. At last a new morning has come, and we looked out over the sea, and the other ship has gone from sight. We have left it forever. Perhaps we have drifted away, perhaps a storm has parted us, the end is the same—separation for evermore.”
She spoke mournfully, looking away, her voice insensibly took up a cadence, and the words seemed to fall of themselves into rhythmic pause.
“I understand you,” said Brandon, with a more profound mournfulness in his voice. “You speak like a Sibyl. I pray Heaven that your words may not be a prophecy.”
Beatrice still looked at him, and in her eyes he read pity beyond words; and sorrow also as deep as that pity.
“Do you read my thoughts as I read yours?” asked Brandon, abruptly.
“Yes,” she answered, mournfully.