"Ah, sir," said she, "listen to the brook!"
Now it so chanced they had drawn very near this talkative stream, whose voice reached them—now in hoarse whisperings, now in throaty chucklings, and whose ripples were bright with the reflected glory of the moon. Just where they stood, a path led down to these shimmering waters,—a narrow and very steep path screened by bending willows; and, moved by Fate, or Chance, or Destiny, Barnabas descended this path, and turning, reached up his hands to Cleone.
"Come!" he said. And thus, for a moment, while he looked up into her eyes, she looked down into his, and sighed, and moved towards him, and—set her foot upon the pebble.
And thus, behold the pebble had achieved its purpose, for, next moment Cleone was lying in his arms, and for neither of them was life or the world to be ever the same thereafter.
Yes, indeed, the perfume of the roses was full of intoxication to-night; the murmurous brook whispered of things scarce dreamed of; and the waning moon was bright enough to show the look in her eyes and the quiver of her mouth as Barnabas stooped above her.
"Cleone!" he whispered, "Cleone—can you—do you—love me? Oh, my white lady,—my woman that I love,—do you love me?"
She did not speak, but her eyes answered him; and, in that moment Barnabas stooped and kissed her, and held her close, and closer, until she sighed and stirred in his embrace.
Then, all at once, he groaned and set her down, and stood before her with bent head.
"My dear," said he, "oh, my dear!"
"Barnabas?"