And again he moved his head solemnly, making his liquid brown eyes
look more enormous than usual.

"It is all destiny," Hermione repeated, almost dreamily.

Just then she felt that it was so--that each human being, and she most
of all, was in the grasp of an inflexible, of an almost fierce guide,
who chose the paths, and turned the feet of each traveller, reluctant
or not, into the path the will of the guide had selected. And now,
still dreamily, she wondered whether she would ever try to rebel if
the path selected for her were one that she hated or feared, one that
led into any horror of darkness, or any horror of too great light. For
light, too, can be terrible, a sudden great light that shines
pitilessly upon one's own soul. She was of those who possess force and
impulse, and she knew it. She knew, too, that these are often
rebellious. But to-day it seemed to her that she might believe so much
in destiny, be so entirely certain of the inflexible purpose and power
of the guide, that her intellect might forbid her to rebel, because of
rebellion's fore-ordained inutility. Nevertheless, she supposed that
if it was her instinct to rebel, she would do so at the psychological
moment, even against the dictates of her intellect.

Gaspare remained beside her quietly. He often stood near her after
they had been talking together, and calmly shared the silence with
her. She liked that. It gave her an impression of his perfect
confidence in her, his perfect ease in her company.

"Don't you ever think that you can put a knife into destiny, Gaspare,"
she asked him presently, using an image he would be likely to
understand, "as you might put a knife into a man who tried to force