With a lily in her hand, backgrounded thus by stars and midnight, she might have represented a virgin saint on a missal, but her arms were bare and extended, and she seemed rather to be a prophetess, a sybil, uttering invocation.
Her lips scarce moved, but they sighed a name, "Basil."
The ruffled waters, at the steps of the boat, swayed and parted. The visage of a dead man looked out from the depths to her. His hair hung lank about his brow, the tide washed it along in passing, as it washed the weeds from the face of the lilies.
"Basil," she murmured.
"You called to me? Or was it but the haunting of a name that once did melt like honey from your lip?"
"I called...."
"Was it the wail of love?—Ah no, perchance it was a sigh—the pitiful sigh of happiness compassionate—happiness regretting sorrow?..."
"It was love alone that cried."
"Searching?"
"And finding not!"