"Yes—yes—I know. But I hate—it isn't like a man to—Go and play to me again."
"I won't play 'Gerontius.' It makes you think sad things, dreadful things."
"No, play it again. It was on your piano that day I called—in London. I shall always associate it with you."
The dress rustled. She was getting up.
Isaacson hesitated no longer. He went instantly up the bank. When he had reached the top he stood still for a moment. His breath came quickly. Below, the piano sounded. Bella Donna had not seen him, had not, without seeing him, divined his presence. He might go while she played, and she would never know he had been there eavesdropping in the night. No one would ever know. And to-morrow, with the sun, he could come back openly, defying her request. He could come back boldly and ask for his friend.
"Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo!"
He would come back and see the face that went with that changed voice, that voice which he had hardly recognized.
"Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul! Go from this world!"
He moved to go away to those far-off lights which showed where the Fatma lay, by Edfou.
"Go forth ... go from this world!"