That was the cry that rose up perpetually in the heart of Artois, the cry that Hermione must never hear. He said to her now:
“Without you, Hermione, I should be dust in the dust of Africa!”
“Perhaps we each owe something to the other,” she said. “It is blessed to have a debt to a friend.”
“Would to God that I could pay all my debt to you!” Artois exclaimed.
Again the cavern took up his voice and threw it back to the sea in confused and hollow mutterings. They both looked up, as if some one were above them, warning them or rebuking them. At that instant they had the feeling that they were being watched. But there was only the empty gray sea about them, and over their heads the rugged, weary rock that had leaned over the sea for countless years.
“Hark!” said Artois, “it is telling me that my debt to you can never be paid: only in one way could it be partially discharged. If I could show you a path to happiness, the happiness you long for, and need, the passionate happiness of the heart that is giving where it rejoices to give—for your happiness must always be in generosity—I should have partially paid my debt to you. But that is impossible.”
“I’ve made you sad to-day by my complaining,” she said, with self-rebuke; “I’m sorry. You didn’t realize?”
“How it was with you? No, not quite—I thought you were more at peace than you are.”
“Till to-day I believe I was half deceived too.”
“That singing boy, that—what is his name?”