Not by any effort of will did he throw off the
nightmare hanging over him. Nor was he drugged by love. He was in a sort
of spiritual catalepsy. In face of fate too powerful for his will, his
turmoil, anxiety, and even restlessness had ceased; his life floated in
the ether of "what must come, will." Out of this catalepsy, his spirit
sometimes fell headlong into black waters. In one such whirlpool he was
struggling on the night of Christmas Eve. When the girl rose from her
knees he asked her:
"What did you see?"
Pressing close to him, she drew him down on to the floor before the
fire; and they sat, knees drawn up, hands clasped, like two children
trying to see over the edge of the world.
"It was the Virgin I saw. She stood against the wall and smiled. We
shall be happy soon."
"When we die, Wanda," he said, suddenly, "let it be together. We shall
keep each other warm, out there."
Huddling to him she whispered: "Yes, oh, yes! If you die, I could not go
on living."
It was this utter dependence on him, the feeling that he had rescued
something, which gave him sense of anchorage. That, and his buried life
in the retreat of these two rooms.
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