"Clusium," said Amory softly. "I had actually wanted to go to the
cemetery at Clusium, to see some inscriptions!"
"No, you didn't, Toby," said St. George pleasantly, "you wanted to
go somewhere and you called it Clusium. You wanted an adventure and
you thought Clusium was the name of it."
"I know," said Amory shamelessly, "and there are no end of names for
it. But it's always the same thing. _Excepting this_."
"Excepting this," St. George repeated fervently as they turned to
go; and if, in singing of that morning, the rollicking wind sang
that, it must have breathed and trembled with a chorus of faint
voices from every shelf in the room,--voices that of old had
thrilled with the same meaning and woke now to the eternal echo.
Woke now to the eternal echo--an echo that touched delicately
through the events of that afternoon and laid strange values on all
that happened. Otherwise, if they four were not all a little
echo-mad, how was it that in the shadow of doubt, in the face of
danger, and near the inextinguishable mystery they yet found time
for the little, wing-like moments that never hold history, because
they hold revelation.
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