They longed to be
somewhere together where Beatrice had never been, where her sad face
could not follow them; and one night Silencieux whispered to Antony:--
"Take me to the sea, Antony--to some lonely sea."
"To-morrow I will take you," said Antony, "where the loneliest land
meets the loneliest sea."
On the morrow evening the High Muses had once more made Antony late for
dinner. One hour, and two hours, went by, and then Beatrice, in alarm,
took the lantern and courageously braved the blackness of the wood.
The chalet was in darkness, and the door was locked, but through the
uncurtained glass of the window, she was able to irradiate the emptiness
of its interior. Antony was not there.
But she noticed, with a shudder, that the space usually filled by the
Image was vacant. Then she understood, and with a hopeless sigh went
down the wood again.
Already Antony and Silencieux had found the place where the loneliest
land meets the loneliest sea. Side by side they were sitting on a
moonlit margin of the world, and Antony was singing low to the murmur of
the waves:--
Hopeless of hope, past desire even of thee,
There is one place I long for,
A desolate place
That I sing all my songs for,
A desolate place for a desolate face,
Where the loneliest land meets the loneliest sea.
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