Yet there was onenot Michaelwho, if he lived, must keep me from her; and for whose life I was going
forth to stake my own. And his figurethe lithe, buoyant figure I had met in the woods of Zendathe
dull, inert mass I had left in the cellar of the hunting-lodgeseemed to rise, double-shaped, before me,
and to come between us, thrusting itself in even where she lay, pale, exhausted, fainting, in my arms,
and yet looking up at me with those eyes that bore such love as I have never seen, and haunt me now,
and will till the ground closes over meand (who knows?) perhaps beyond.