'
"Then once more Hope rent her starry robes, and the angels drew down a
veil over the eyes of Night, and the sea swallowed me, and I sank till I
reached the deep foundations of mortal death. And there in the Halls of
Death I sat for ages upon ages, till at last I saw you come, and on your
lips was the word of wisdom that makes all things clear, but what it was
I cannot remember. Then I stretched out my hand to greet you, and woke,
and that is all my dream."
Beatrice ceased, her grey eyes set wide, as though they still strove to
trace their spiritual vision upon the air of earth, her breast heaving,
and her lips apart.
"Great heaven!" he said, "what an imagination you must have to dream
such a dream as that."
"Imagination," she answered, returning to her natural manner. "I have
none, Mr. Bingham. I used to have, but I lost it when I lost--everything
else. Can you interpret my dream? Of course you cannot; it is nothing
but nonsense--such stuff as dreams are made of, that is all."
"It may be nonsense, I daresay it is, but it is beautiful nonsense," he
answered.
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