Pierson could not answer, for there came into his mind the Greek song he had been reading aloud that afternoon—
“O for a deep and dewy Spring,
With runlets cold to draw and drink,
And a great meadow blossoming,
Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring,
To rest me by the brink.
O take me to the mountain, O,
Past the great pines and through the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,
A-whine for wild things' blood,
And madly flies the dappled roe,
O God, to shout and speed them there;
An arrow by my chestnut hair
Drawn tight and one keen glimmering spear
Ah! if I could!”
All that in life had been to him unknown, of venture and wild savour; all the emotion he had stifled; the swift Pan he had denied; the sharp fruits, the burning suns, the dark pools, the unearthly moonlight, which were not of God—all came with the breath of that old song, and the look on the girl's face. And he covered his eyes.
Noel's hand tugged at his arm. “Isn't beauty terribly alive,” she murmured, “like a lovely person? it makes you ache to kiss it.”
His lips felt parched. “There is a beauty beyond all that,” he said stubbornly.
“Where?”
“Holiness, duty, faith. O Nollie, my love!” But Noel's hand tightened on his arm.
“Shall I tell you what I should like?” she whispered. “To take God's hand and show Him things. I'm certain He's not seen everything.”
A shudder went through Pierson, one of those queer sudden shivers, which come from a strange note in a voice, or a new sharp scent or sight.
“My dear, what things you say!”