He pressed his face to the stone wall, and whispered as to her:
"Fay, have I served you?"
He almost heard her tremulous whisper, "Yes."
"Do you still love me?"
"Yes."
"We may love each other now."
Again Fay's voice very low. "Yes."
It had to be like that. This moment was only a faint foreshadowing of that unendurable joy, which inevitably had to come.
A great trembling laid hold on Michael. He could not stand. He fell on his knees, but he could not kneel. He stretched himself face downwards on his pallet. But it was not low enough. He flung himself on the floor of his cell, but it was not low enough. A grave would hardly have been low enough. The resisting stone floor had to do instead.
And through the waves of awe and rapture that swept over him came faintly down to him, as from some dim world left behind, the bells of Venice, and the thin cry of the sea-mew rejoicing with him.