He turned to behold the woman whom now, with no trace of the fancifulness, the idealism of his time, he loved with all depth, passion, actuality; he set wrist to teeth and bit the flesh until blood started; he moved towards her where she sat with her hands clasped above her knee, her head thrown back, watching his coming with those deep eyes of hers. He reached her side; she rose to meet him, and the two stood embraced in the flattering sunshine, the odor of the lilies, the pale glory of the failing day.
"My dear love, it is not possible," he said. "Flower of women! didst dream that I would leave thee here blasted by my name, or that I would carry thee where I must go? Star of my earth, to-day we say a clean farewell!"
"Then God be with thee," she said, brokenly.
"And with thee!" he answered. Hand in hand they moved to the broken wall, and leaning upon it, looked out to that far line of sea. Her under-sleeve of silver gauze fell away from her arm.
"How white is thy arm!" he breathed. "How branched with tender blue!"
"Wilt kiss it?" she answered, "so I shall grow to love myself."
"Thou art the fairest thing the sun shines on," he said. "Thy lips are like flowers I have never seen in the West."
"Gather the flowers," she said, and raised her face to his. "The garden is kept for thee."
The sun began to decline, the earth to darken, swallows circled past. "It grows late," she said, "late, late! When goest thou?"
"Within the week."