“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I mean not that.” She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek against that of the sick woman. “No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”
“They are not lost. You will see them again.”
“See my father! See my Lamia!”
“Yes—I know it will be so.”
“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it be? They have been.”
“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”
“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”
Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said solemnly: “Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”
“Yes—this amulet,” answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria. “Yes—I recollect—there was some mystery, but what was it?”
“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”