"I was thinking of his death."
"His death!"
Artois felt cold with apprehension, but he was determined to be
sincere.
"I don't understand."
"Don’t ask me any more, Hermione. I know nothing more."
"He was coming from the island. He slipped and fell into the sea."
"He fell into the sea."
There was a long silence between them, filled by the perpetual
striving of the restless waves within the chambers of the palace. Then
she said:
"Her father was on the island that night?"
"I think he was."
"Was it that? Was it that? Did Maurice make that atonement?"
Artois shuddered. Her voice was so strange, or sounded so strange in
the dark. Did she wish to think, wish to be sure that her husband had
been murdered? He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She had moved.
Was she coming nearer? He heard her breathing, or thought he heard it.
He longed to be certain. He longed to still the perpetual cry of the
baffled sea.
"Then he was brave--at the last. I think he knew--I am sure he knew--
when he went down to the sea.
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