The Trespasser

It was dark when she rose. Siegmund was not in sight. She tidied

herself, and rather frightened, went to look for him. She saw him like a

thick shadow on the earth. Now she was heavy with tears good to shed.

She stood in silent sorrow, looking at him.

Suddenly she became aware of someone passing and looking curiously at

them.

'Dear!' she said softly, stooping and touching his hair. He began to

struggle with himself to respond. At that minute he would rather have

died than face anyone. His soul was too much uncovered.

'Dear, someone is looking,' she pleaded.

He drew himself up from cover. But he kept his face averted. They walked

on.

'Forgive me, dear,' she said softly.

'Nay, it's not you,' he answered, and she was silenced. They walked on

till the night seemed private. She turned to him, and 'Siegmund!' she

said, in a voice of great sorrow and pleading.

He took her in his arms, but did not kiss her, though she lifted her

face. He put his mouth against her throat, below the ear, as she offered

it, and stood looking out through the ravel of her hair, dazed, dreamy.

The sea was smoking with darkness under half-luminous heavens. The

stars, one after another, were catching alight. Siegmund perceived first

one, and then another dimmer one, flicker out in the darkness over the

sea. He stood perfectly still, watching them. Gradually he remembered

how, in the cathedral, the tapers of the choir-stalls would tremble and

set steadily to burn, opening the darkness point after point with yellow

drops of flame, as the acolyte touched them, one by one, delicately with

his rod. The night was religious, then, with its proper order of

worship. Day and night had their ritual, and passed in uncouth worship.

Siegmund found himself in an abbey. He looked up the nave of the night,

where the sky came down on the sea-like arches, and he watched the stars

catch fire. At least it was all sacred, whatever the God might be.

Helena herself, the bitter bread, was stuff of the ceremony, which he

touched with his lips as part of the service.

He had Helena in his arms, which was sweet company, but in spirit he was

quite alone. She would have drawn him back to her, and on her woman's

breast have hidden him from Fate, and saved him from searching the

unknown. But this night he did not want comfort. If he were 'an infant

crying in the night', it was crying that a woman could not still. He was

abroad seeking courage and faith for his own soul. He, in loneliness,

must search the night for faith.