As Hermione looked at the painting lit by the little lamp, at the gifts

of the flowers and the fruit, she began to feel as if indeed a woman

dwelt there, in that niche of the crag, as if a heart were there, a soul

to pity, an ear to listen.

Lucrezia knelt down quietly, lit her candle, turned it upside down till

the hot wax dripped onto the rock and made a foundation for it, then

stuck it upright, crossed herself silently, and began to pray. Her lips

moved quickly. The candle-flame flickered for a moment, then burned

steadily, sending its thin fire up towards the evening star. After a

moment Hermione knelt down beside her.

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She had never before prayed at a shrine. It was curious to be kneeling

under this savage wall of rock above which the evening star showed itself

in the clear heaven of night. She looked at the star and at the Madonna,

then at the little bunches of flowers, and at Lucrezia's candle. These

gifts of the poor moved her heart. Poverty giving is beautiful. She

thought that, and was almost ashamed of the comfort of her life. She

wished she had brought a candle, too. Then she bent her head and began to

pray that Sebastiano might remember Lucrezia and return to her. To make

her prayer more earnest, she tried to realize Lucrezia's sorrow by

putting herself in Lucrezia's place, and Maurice in Sebastiano's. It was

such a natural effort as people make every day, every hour. If Maurice

had forgotten her in absence, had given his love to another, had not

cared to return to her! If she were alone now in Sicily while he was

somewhere else, happy with some one else!

Suddenly the wildness of this place where she knelt became terrible to

her. She felt the horror of solitude, of approaching darkness. The

outlines of the rocks and of the ruined castle looked threatening,

alarming. The pale light of the lamp before the shrine and of Lucrezia's

votive candle drew to them not only the fluttering night-moths, but the

spirits of desolation and of hollow grief that dwell among the waste

places and among the hills. Night seemed no more beneficent, but dreary

as a spectre that came to rob the world of all that made it beautiful.

The loneliness of deserted women encompassed her. Was there any other

loneliness comparable to it?

She felt sure that there was not, and she found herself praying not only

for Lucrezia, but for all women who were sad because they loved, for all

women who were deserted by those whom they loved, or who had lost those

whom they loved.




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