"Speak!" said Barnabas, and caught her hand (unresisting now),
and held it to his lips. "Oh, Cleone,--answer me!"
Then Cleone obeyed and spoke, though her voice was tremulous and low.
"Ah, sir," said she, "listen to the brook!"
Now it so chanced they had drawn very near this talkative stream,
whose voice reached them--now in hoarse whisperings, now in throaty
chucklings, and whose ripples were bright with the reflected glory
of the moon. Just where they stood, a path led down to these
shimmering waters,--a narrow and very steep path screened by bending
willows; and, moved by Fate, or Chance, or Destiny, Barnabas
descended this path, and turning, reached up his hands to Cleone.
"Come!" he said. And thus, for a moment, while he looked up into her
eyes, she looked down into his, and sighed, and moved towards him,
and--set her foot upon the pebble.
And thus, behold the pebble had achieved its purpose, for, next
moment Cleone was lying in his arms, and for neither of them was
life or the world to be ever the same thereafter.
Yes, indeed, the perfume of the roses was full of intoxication
to-night; the murmurous brook whispered of things scarce dreamed of;
and the waning moon was bright enough to show the look in her eyes
and the quiver of her mouth as Barnabas stooped above her.
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