“Have you understood that you are lying?” she said. “Be silent.”
So all was ended. Even this last rebellion of Marco’s soul evaporated, leaving him cold and dumb. His very torment, given its supreme grief, seemed to quieten into torpor. The large emotions which he had just experienced left him exhausted with a disgust of himself and life. White and done up he lay upon the sofa scarcely noticing the woman at his side. She herself, spent by the long spiritual struggle maintained with herself and him, lay with closed mouth, her beautiful chestnut hair with its deep shining waves had fallen about her neck, and her head had fallen forward listlessly. Each was far away, full of thought and sorrow for the new life so uncertain and doubtful which was presenting itself to their gaze, and each was trying to read the unknown words of their new fate.
Both felt themselves in the great obscurity to be without energy, to have spent everything, to have lost all in the high crisis of detachment.
How long this sad absorption lasted they did not know.
It was already dusk when Maria started, and desired that everything should be ended fittingly between them. Silently she rose and giving him her hand led him into the bedroom, to the room which had been theirs. Near the bed, upon a background of dark-blue velvet, an old crucifix of yellowish ivory was hanging, and the face of the Martyr was full of profound and yet serene sorrow.
She looked at the Christ who had died for love and duty, for the desire of the salvation of every suffering soul.
“Do you remember, Marco, we did not dare to invoke the blessing of Maria, the most pure, on our love, but before Him who understood all and pardoned all, who was God, but was also man, who sees all, and who raised all to heaven, we asked Jesus to consecrate our knot?”
“Yes, Maria,” he murmured, regarding the anguished but tranquil face of the Son of man.
“Before Him we united ourselves for life and death. I obtained your promise of love and fidelity, Marco.”
“I have kept it, Maria.”