interminable hours of waiting. For now in addition to
everything else he was haunted by a nebulous feeling
of sadness — the sadness that comes when the blossom
must fall to give place to the graver claims of fruition.
Inarticulate, shy and sad he felt, despite those erst-
while moments of triumph.

Then at last the day drifted into the evening, and
the moon was rising over the harbour which in spite
of the war still reeked of wine and the dregs of wine —
the same ancient reek that engendered such monstrous
imaginings, such hot thoughts of the godless god that
was Bacchus. At la Tarasque the little violinist made
music, and Eusebe lolled in his corner, and Beauvais
sat sipping his third petit verre while the couples
clasped and danced rather grimly. Outside on the quay
a quarrel flared up, burnt awhile, and died down amid
boisterous laughter; some sailors swung by singing
snatches of song; a stray mongrel lugubriously bayed
the moon, then yelped when one of the sailor-men
kicked it; from the water came the rattle of blocks and
chain as a boat was prepared for a night of fishing.
But Christophe had passed through the grey stone
archway that had been bequeathed to Saint Loup by
the Romans, and now as he climbed the quiet hill-
side beyond, it seemed to him that that arch was a
portal whose door had for ever silently closed upon
all that was strange, obscure and unreal — for nothing
seemed real except -SLliana.

She was standing with her back against the ruins, but
she came towards him out of their shadows and passed
into the full^ soft light of the moon, so that his heart
must beat thickly to see her. The moonlight fell on her
ardent lips, on her brow that was so serenely placid, on
the curves of her breasts that were generous and firm
as though fashioned to soothe and sustain creation.
420