The slow minutes passed; his thoughts went wandering over the world, seeking for what they could not find.  And how was he to call to Nina across the black gulf of the night, wheresoever she might be?  Suddenly there leaped into his recollection an old German ballad he used to sing.  It was that of the three comrades who were wont to drink together, until one died, and another died, and nevertheless the solitary survivor kept the accustomed tryst, and still, sitting there alone, he had the three glasses filled, and still he sang aloud, “Aus voller Brust.” There came an evening; as he filled the cups, a tear fell into his own; yet bravely he called to his ghostly companions, “I drink to you, my brothers—­but why are you so mute and still?” And behold! the glasses clinked together; and the wine was slowly drunk out of all the three, “Fiducit! du wackerer Zecher!”—­it was the loyal comrade’s last draught.  And now Lionel, hardly knowing what he was doing—­for there were such wild desires and longings in his brain—­went to a small cabinet hard by and brought forth the loving-cup he had given to Nina.  They two were the last who had drunk out of it.  And if now, if once again, on this last night of all the nights of the year, he were to repeat his challenge, would she not know?  He cared not in what form she might appear—­Nina could not be other than gentle—­silent she might be, but surely her eyes would shine with kindness and forgiveness.  He was not aware of it, but his fingers were trembling as he took the cup in twain, and put the two tiny goblets on the table and filled them with wine.  Nay, in a sort of half-dazed fashion he went and opened the door and left it wide—­might there not be some shadowy footfall on the empty stair!  He returned to the table and sat down; it was almost twelve; he was shivering a little—­the night was cold.

All around him the silence appeared to grow more profound; there was only the ticking of a clock.  As minute after minute passed, the suspense became almost unendurable; something seemed to be choking him; and yet his eyes would furtively and nervously wander from the small goblets before him to the open door, as if he expected some vision to present itself there, from whatsoever distant shore it might come.

The clock behind him struck a silver note, and instantly this vain fantasy vanished; what was the use of regarding the two wine-filled cups when he knew that Nina was far and far away?  He sprang to his feet and went to the window, and gazed out into the black and formless chaos beyond.

“Nina!” he called, “Nina!—­Nina!” as if he would pierce the hollow distance with this passionate cry.