The silence no longer seemed a silence to him. It was filled with
the beating of his heart, the singing of his love, a gentle sigh
now and then that came like a deeper breath between Jeanne's sweet
lips. It was a silence that pulsated with a voiceless and
intoxicating life for him, and he was happy. In these moments,
when even their voices were stilled, Jeanne belonged to him, and
to him alone. He could feel the warmth of her presence. He felt
still the thrill of her breast against his own, the touch of her
hair upon his lips, the gentle clinging of her arms. The spirit of
her moved, and sat awake, and talked with him, just as the old
spirit of his dreams had communed with him a thousand times in his
loneliness. Dreams were at an end. Now had come reality.
He looked up into the sky. The moon had dropped below the
southwestern forests, and there were only the stars above him,
filling a gray-blue vault in which there was not even the
lingering mist of a cloud. It was a beautifully clear night, and
he wondered how the light fell so that it did not reveal Jeanne in
her nest. The thought that came to him then set his heart tingling
and made his face radiant. Even the stars were guarding Jeanne,
and refused to disclose the mystery of her slumber.
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