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And he had never lost the sense of it
amid the dust of his worldly knowledge. But about these children,
about them or within them, there floated, perhaps, something that was
mystic, something that was awful and must not be disturbed. Hermione
did not feel it. How could she? He himself had withheld from her for
many years the only knowledge that could have made her share his
present feeling. He could tell her nothing. Yet he could not conceal
his intense reluctance to go to that seat upon the cliff.
"But it's delicious here. I love the Pool at night, don't you? Look at
the Saint's light, how quietly it shines!"
She took her hands from the rail. His attempt at detention irritated
her whole being. She looked at the light. On the night of the storm
she had felt as if it shone exclusively for her. That feeling was
dead. San Francesco watched, perhaps, over the fishermen. He did not
watch over her.
And yet that night she, too, had made the sign of the cross when she
knew that the light was shining.


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