A slow, cold thrill went through him at the solemn tenderness of her voice, and for a few moments his mind gathered blankness. Gradually the prefigurations of this hour which had filled his life for days past, came to him.
“I, too, have had spiritual warnings of this,” he murmured. “My soul has told me much lately. You remember my sad fancy when I left you on Sunday morning, that I was not to return. And on the evening of that day the event occurred which separates us.”
“Yes,” she responded, “and that was the morning when I dreamed that you were gone from earth, and were looking at me as I moved through life alone.”
Again a long silence succeeded.
“To wake from our happy sleep thus,” she said, suddenly, “is it not strange! Is it not awful! And yet I realize it all. I realize that these are our last moments together. To deny these presentiments is impossible. Yes—it is destiny. Is it not? Is there any escape for us?”
“It rests with my will, Muriel,” he answered. “I believe this dream is only a warning. If I stay here with you I am safe. It rests with me to decide whether I will go or stay.”
“Can nothing be done?” she hurriedly asked. “Is there no other way of saving this man?”
“None,” he answered. “It is too late now. The ship sails in a few hours. There is nothing but for me to go at midnight and rescue Antony, or leave him to his fate, and Roux to death or madness. One thing alone shakes me.”
“What?” she asked.
“The suffering my death will give your mother,” he answered. “It may kill her.”