As he crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. No; the future was not so dark; there was a bit of dawn visible. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. His shoulders relaxed and his gaze wavered. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. A common rage flushed their faces. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John.
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