"Your little girl
is very ill. She must be kept very quiet, and on no account excited."
Beatrice and Antony took it in turns to watch by Wonder's bed that
night, and once while Beatrice was watching, Antony found time to steal
up the wood with his prayer to Silencieux.
Never had she looked more mask-like, more lifeless.
"Silencieux," he cried, "I wickedly brought you my little child. O give
her back to me again! I cannot bear it. I cannot give her to you,
Silencieux. Take me, if you will. I will gladly die for you. But spare
her. O give her back to me, Silencieux!"
But the image was impassive and made no sign.
"Silencieux," he implored, "speak, for I know you hear me. Are you a
devil, Silencieux; a devil I have worshipped all this time? God help me!
Have you no pity,--what is her little flower-life to you? Why should you
snatch it out of the sun--"
But Silencieux made no sign.
Then Antony grew angry in his remorse: "I hate you, Silencieux. Never
will I look on your face again. You are an evil dream that has stolen
from me the truth of life. I have broken a true heart that loved me,
that would have died for me--for your sake; just to watch your loveless
beauty, to hear the cold music of your voice.
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