a moment faced him again. "No," she cried, "no hope, and no rest or
peace;" and then the storm and the night closed over her.

He moved to the window after a moment, and leaning out, called her
name. There was no answer but the shrieking of the storm. The black
waters had greedily embraced her, and in their depths she would find
rest at last. How would she look down there, in some quiet cave,
with the sea-weed floating over her white gown, and the pearls in her
beautiful hair? How exquisite a thing she would be! The very monsters
of the deep would hold their breath as they passed, and leave her
unmolested. And the eye of mortal man would never gaze upon her again.
There was divinest ecstacy in the thought! Ah! how lovely she was!
What a face--what a form!

He staggered back from the window and gave a loud laugh. At last it
had been vanquished and broken--that iron hand. He had heard it snap
that moment within his brain. And it was pouring upward, that river of
song. The elfins had come back, and were quiring like the immortals.
She would hear them down there, in her cold, nameless grave, with the
ceaseless requiem of the waters above her, and smile and rejoice
that death had come to her to give him speech. His brain was the very
cathedral of heaven, and there was music in every part of it. The
glad shout was ringing throughout nave and transept like the glorious
greeting of Christmas morning. "Her face! Her form!" No, no; not
that again. They were no part of the burning flood of song which was
writhing and surging in his brain. They were not the words which would
tell the world--Ah! what was it? "Her face! Her form!--"

He groped his way to and fro like a blind man seeking some object to
guide him. "Her eyes! Her hair!" No, no. Oh, what was this? Why was he