“Oh, Dion, I shall hate going away, leaving the tent and Drouva and him. But I believe whenever I think of Olympia I shall feel the peace that, thank God, doesn’t pass all understanding.”
They went down to the valley that day to pay their final visit to the Hermes. Twilight had not yet come, but was not very far off when, for the last time, they crossed the threshold of his chamber. More silent than ever, more benignly silent, did the hush about him seem to Dion; more profound were his peace and serenity. He and the child had surely withdrawn a little farther from all that was not intended, but that, for some inscrutable reason, had come to be. His winged sandals had carried him still farther away. As Dion looked at him he seemed to be afar.
“Rosamund!”
“Yes?”
“This evening I have a feeling about the Hermes I’ve never had before.”
“What is it?”
“That he’s taking the child away, quite away.”
“But he’s always been here, and not here. That’s what I love so much.”
“I don’t mean quite that. It’s as if he were taking the child farther and farther away, partly because of us.”
“I don’t like that. I don’t feel that at all.”