"He cannot stay, Ysobel," she ended.
I could scarcely hear my own voice when I echoed the words.
"He cannot--stay?"
"Oh! the time will come," she said, "when people who love each other
will not be separated, when on this very earth there will be no pain, no
grief, no age, no death--when all the world has learned the Law at
last. But we have not learned it yet. And here we stand! The greatest
specialists have told us. There is some fatal flaw in his heart. At any
moment, when he is talking to us, when he is at his work, when he is
asleep, he may--cease. It will just be ceasing. At any moment. He cannot
stay."
My own heart stood still for a second. Then there rose before me slowly,
but clearly, a vision--the vision which was not a dream.
"Out on the hillside," I murmured. "Out on the hillside."
I clung to her with both arms and held her tight. I understood now why
they had talked about The Fear. These two who were almost one soul
were trying to believe that they were not really to be torn apart--not
really. They were trying to heap up for themselves proof that they might
still be near each other. And, above all, his effort was to save her
from the worst, worst woe. And I understood, too, why something wiser
and stronger than myself had led me to tell the dream which was not a
dream at all.
But it was as she said; the world had not learned the Secret yet.
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