Giles stopped.
“Look!” he said. On the far horizon of the dark sea there was a crimson flare, as of a ship on fire.
“The moon is rising. Sit down a minute, child, and rest, you must be tired.”
She seated herself on a lower bank. The moon rose slowly, the crimson changing to yellow, the yellow to white. Giles stood beside the girl, looking down on her. The wonderful southern night throbbed around them, the still air was warm and full of scent; through the olive branches the stars gleamed, there was no sound save the faint, far-off murmur of the town, and the sough of the sea below.
The moon rose to the level of the olive bank; and Giles saw that she was crying, crying silently, pitifully.
He flung himself down at her feet, and kissed them, crying—
“Don’t, my darling, don’t! it hurts me—it hurts me.”
He clasped his hands on her knees, and she bent her head down upon them. A great trembling passed through his frame; it seemed to him an eternity that passed, while the hot moisture of her tears burned his hands. His face was close to her hair; with every noiseless sob it was the nearer to his lips. He kissed the dark head softly.
Presently she raised her eyes to his, dark and wet with tears. Her lips were trembling. The moonbeams fell upon his face, white, tense, and passionate; on hers, tender, pitiful, and tear-stained.
“I want to be good to you, dearest. What does anything matter while you are so wretched? What can I do? What can I do?”