Can we call a life sad which has had in it one such blessed hour?
Luminous day followed luminous day, and the nights also were full of light. His work was nothing to him. The increasing heat was nothing to him. His chains were nothing to him.
But at last when the weeks drew into a month, two months, a chill doubt took up its abode with him. It was resolutely cast out. But it returned. It was fought against with desperation. It was scorned as want of faith. Michael's strength waned with each conflict. But it always returned. At last it became to him like a mysterious figure, always present with him.
"Fay," he whispered over and over again through the endless burning nights of summer. "Dear one, come soon."
There was neither speech nor language, only the lying bells in the dawn.
A frightful suspense laid its cold, creeping hold on Michael.
What could have happened?
Was she ill?
Was she dead?