“And yet,” said she, dropping her eyes and seeming to abandon the attempt, “you said that if you failed to-day you would come back to me. Have you succeeded, that you need no help?”
“And if I had not come to you--if I had not met you here, you would have failed for the last time. You would have carried with you the conviction of her death to the moment of your own.”
“It was a horrible delusion, but since it was a delusion it would have passed away in time.”
“With your life, perhaps. Who would have waked you, if I had not?”
“I was not sleeping. Why do you reason? What would you prove?”
“Much, if I knew how. Will you walk with me? It is very cold.”
They had been standing where they had met. As she spoke, Unorna looked up with an expression wholly unlike the one he had seen a few moments earlier. Her strong will was suddenly veiled by the most gentle and womanly manner, and a little shiver, real or feigned, passed over her as she drew the folds of her fur more closely round her. The man before her could resist the aggressive manifestation of her power, but he was far too courteous to refuse her request.
He turned and took his place by her side. For some moments they walked on in silence. It was already almost twilight.
“How short the days are!” exclaimed Unorna, rather suddenly.
“How long, even at their shortest!” replied her companion.
He did not answer her, though he glanced quickly at her face. She was looking down at the pavement before her, as though picking her way, for there were patches of ice upon the stones. She seemed very quiet. He could not guess that her heart was beating violently, and that she found it hard to say six words in a natural tone.
So far as he himself was concerned he was in no humour for talking. He had seen almost everything in the world, and had read or heard almost everything that mankind had to say. The streets of Prague had no novelty for him, and there was no charm in the chance acquaintance of a beautiful woman, to bring words to his lips. Words had long since grown useless in the solitude of a life that was spent in searching for one face among the millions that passed before his sight. Courtesy had bidden him to walk with her, because she had asked it, but courtesy did not oblige him to amuse her, he thought, and she had not the power that Keyork Arabian had to force him into conversation, least of all into conversing upon his own inner life. He regretted the few words he had spoken, and would have taken them back, had it been possible. He felt no awkwardness in the long silence.