Now lost, now restless, conscious of the perils of the shining path she followed, the rhythm of an ocean soothing her to false security, she dreamed on awake, unconscious of the tinted sea and sky which stained her eyes to hues ineffable. A long while afterward a small cloud floated across the sun; and, in the sudden shadow on the world, doubt sounded its tiny voice, and her ears listened, and the enchantment faded and died away.
Turning, she looked across the sand at the man lying there; her eyes considered him—how long she did not know, she did not heed—until, stirring, he looked up; and she paled a trifle and closed her eyes, stunned by the sudden clamour of pulse and heart.
When he rose and walked over, she looked up gravely, pouring the last handful of white sand through her stretched fingers.
“Did you dream?” he asked lightly.
“Yes.”
“Did you dream true?”
“Nothing of my dream can happen,” she said. “You know that,... don't you?”
“I know that we love... and that we dare not ignore it.”
She suffered his arm about her, his eyes looking deeply into hers—a close, sweet caress, a union of lips, and her dimmed eyes' response.
“Stephen,” she faltered, “how can you make it so hard for me? How can you force me to this shame!”