If God would light the moon or stars, and let him see! If
God would end the expectation of this night, let one wan glimmer down
into her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast! But it stayed
dark, and the homeless noise never ceased. The weird thought came to
Miltoun that it was made by his own heart, wandering out there, trying
to feel warm again. He closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not
his heart, but indeed some external presence, unconsoled. And stretching
his hands out he moved forward to arrest that sound. As he reached the
railing, it ceased. And he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of
light blanching the grass.
And, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped. His fingernails
bent and broke against the iron railing without his knowing. It was not
as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their
scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion. Profounder,
more terrible, was this rising up within him of yearning for love--as
if, now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark
grass beneath those dark boughs. And if victorious--what then? He stole
back under the tree.
He could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight;
he could see the white flowers quite plainly now, a pale watch of
blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning,
hardly any longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle.
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