CHAPTER XI
The monk Richard awoke, he knew not why. He woke widely, collectedly, his forces drawn to a point of expectation. “Awake, awake! Look!” seemed to echo in his soul that had suddenly grown quiet. When he had slept his cell was flooded by the moon. Still there was her silver light. He sat up. He was with absoluteness aware of a presence in the cell. Never before, in his pale visions, had he had this sense of startling, of reality,—not at Westforest, not here at Silver Cross. He knew that there was a being in his cell. Neither could he nor did he doubt it. A voice spoke to him, and it was golden-sweet and rich and wonderful. “Richard!”
He turned himself. Light that was not moonlight, though it blended with the moonlight, and in it, real, the Blessed among women!
Could he doubt? It was the great picture come alive! Could he doubt? She spoke—and he had not uttered that dart of thought. “Not that that painter could see me as I am in glory—but knowing that thou lovest me so, I come to thee so! I come to thee as thou canst see me, Richard!”
She was real, she was not tinted air. Real—oh, real! Soft playing light was about her feet, her form, her head, her outspread and glorious dark hair. Her eyes were books, her mouth upland meadows of flowers; the blue and red of her dress, her mantle, trembled and was alive. Life went out of her toward him, his life leaped to meet it. Life at last, life! life! He sprang from his pallet, he kneeled in his monk’s robe. He put his forehead to the stone.
The voice came again—oh, the voice! “Richard, list to me!”
All heaven was speaking to him and filling him—him, him who had been so unhappy!—with joy and power.