Antony took Beatrice to the high hills where all the year long the sun
and the snow shine together. He was afraid of the sea, for the sea was
Silencieux's for ever. In its depths lay a magic harp which filled all
its waves with music--music lovely and accursed, the voice of
Silencieux. That he must never hear again. He would pile the hills
against his ears. Inland and upland, he and Beatrice should go, ever
closer to the kind heart of the land, ever nearer to the forgetful
silences of the sky, till huge walls of space were between them and that
harp of the sea. Nor in the whisper of leaves nor in the gloom of
forests should the thought of Silencieux beset them. The earth that
held least of her--to that earth they would go; the earth that rose
nearest to heaven.

Beauty indeed should be theirs--the Beauty of Nature and Love; no more
the vampire's beauty of Art.

It was strange to each how their souls lightened as the valleys of the
world folded away behind them, and the simple slopes mounted in their
path. In that pure unladen air which so exhilarated their very bodies,
there seemed some mysterious property of exhilaration for the soul also.
One might have dreamed that just to breathe on those heights all one's
days would be to grow holy by the more cleansing power of the air. With
such bright currents ever running through the brain, surely one's
thoughts would circle there white as stones at the bottom of a spring.

"O Antony," said Beatrice, "why were we so long in finding the hills?"

"We found them once before, Beatrice--do you remember?"