years, they must burn at last, burn with all the other accumulated
shadows of time. What we call immortality in art is but the shadow of
the soul's immortality; but the immortality of love is that of the soul
itself--"

"O Antony," interrupted Beatrice, "you really believe that now? You will
never doubt it again?"

"We never doubt what we have really seen, and I had never seen before,"
answered Antony, taking her hand and looking deep into her eyes, "never
seen it as I see it now."

"And you will never doubt it again?"

"Never."

"Whatever that voice should say to you?"

"I shall never hear that voice again."

"O Antony, is it really true? You have come back to me. I can hardly
believe it."

"Listen, Beatrice; when we return to the Valley, return only to leave it
for ever, I will take the Image and smash it in a hundred pieces--for I
hate it now as much as I once loved it. Fear not; it will never trouble
our peace again."

The mention of the valley was a momentary cloud on Beatrice's happiness,
but as she looked into Antony's resolute love-lit face, it melted away.