St. George looked at the multitude in swift understanding. They
were like a Greek chorus, signifying what is. They knew what the
prince was saying, they had the secret and yet--they were _no
nearer, no nearer_ than he. With their ancient kindliness naked in
their faces, St. George knew that through his love he was as near to
the Source as were they. And it was suddenly as it had been that
first night when he had stridden buoyantly through the island; for
he could not tell which was the secret of the prince and of these
people and which was the blessedness of his love.
None the less he clung desperately to the last words of Prince
Tabnit in a vain effort to hold, to make clear, to sophisticate one
single phrase, as one waking in the night says over, in a vain
effort to fix it, some phantom sentence cried to him in dreams by a
shadowy band destined to be dissolved when, in bright day, he would
reclaim it. He even managed frantically to write down a jumble of
words of which he could make nothing, save here and there a phrase
like a touch of hands from the silence: ".
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