The boats rocked softly to and fro as the waters rose and fell beneath them. Madame de Quernais was already seated in the prow of the larger craft.
It was time to go.
Michael had taken the girl's hand in his, and, though it lay warm and restful there, she was stretching out the other to Count Jéhan, who stood apart.
"You are coming too, my cousin?" she said gently, for instinct told her of a lonely heart beating near hers that night.
The light fell on her fair face and uncovered head. Stray curls lay in pretty disorder in the arch of her neck and across a white forehead. Hazel eyes, sweet and true, looked kindly into the pale face opposite her own.
Count Jéhan drew himself up proudly.
None should ever know the pain which racked him as he looked at her.
She was not his—never would be his. Did not Michael Berrington hold her hand—her heart?
So love must be buried at birth, and, if he must rise again, it should be only as some tender, shadowy ghost, which, though sweet to gaze at, could never be held in mortal arms.
Yes, love must hide from sight.