"But why doth love cry here—here by the wet tomb of dead men? what may it find where the waters slide and shift, and the fishes twist, and the reeds tangle?"
"Rest."
"Where satins shimmer not, and gems are few, save those bled from the heart of despair—frozen in flowing...."
"The rarest——"
"Where no song ever swells, and the dirge of the river pleads and pleads for the soul of faith murdered...."
"And saves it."
"Doth love come here to find rest that no earth could give, here, in the cradle of the weeds: to wear jewels, rarer than rubies of the crown, tears of passion, ice-bound and spurned? Doth it come to sing the river's anthem, to wash itself white and holy, and save its soul for ever?"
"It comes."
Close by among the rushes a wood pigeon stirred in its sleep and cooed, and the river at the foot of the house-boat step yawned like a bath of silver, pale and cold. Over the gulf swayed the warm, white body of a dreaming woman. Her arms were flung out, and a soft sob, sweeter than the dove's note, a sob of rest and rapture and realisation broke from her lips.