Artois
turned towards the song and stood still. But Hermione, as if
physically compelled towards it, moved away down the terrace,
following in the direction in which the boat was going.
As she passed Artois saw tears running down her cheeks. And he said to
himself:
"No, I cannot tell her; I can never tell her. If she is to be told,
let Ruffo tell her. Let Ruffo make her understand. Let Ruffo lift her
up from the lie on which I have made her rest, and lead her out of
prison."
As this thought came to him a deep tenderness towards Hermione flooded
his heart. He stood where he was. Far off he still heard Ruffo's voice
drifting away in the mist out to the great sea. And he saw the vague
form of Hermione leaning down over the terrace wall, towards the sea,
the song, and Ruffo.
How intensely strange, how mysterious, how subtle was the influence
housed within the body of that singing boy, that fisher-boy, which,
like an issuing fluid, or escaping vapor, or perfume, had stirred and
attracted the childish heart of Vere, had summoned and now held fast
the deep heart of Hermione.
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