“Hush! It was my sin.”
“Yours? Oh, Rosamund!”
She was still holding his temples. He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Yes, it was my sin. I understand now how you love me. I never understood till to-day.”
“Yes, I love you.”
“Then,” she said, very simply. “I know you will be able to forgive me. Don’t tell me any more ever about what you have done. It’s blotted out. Just forgive me—and let us begin again.”
She took away her hands from his temples. He did not kiss her, but he took one of her hands, and they stood side by side looking towards Stamboul, towards the City of the Unknown God. His eyes and hers were on the minarets, those minarets which seem to say to those who have come to them from afar, and whose souls are restless:
“In the East thou shalt find me if thou hast not found me in the West.”
After a long silence Rosamund pressed Dion’s hand, and it seemed to him that never, in the former days of their union—not even in Greece—had she pressed it with such tenderness, with such pulse-stirring intimacy and trust in him. Then, still with her eyes upon the minarets, she said in a low voice:
“I think Robin knows.”