The night had fled, and with it the hideous phantoms of the night.  It seemed to him that he had escaped from the grave, and that he was only now shaking off the horror of it.  Look at the beautiful, clear colors without; listen to the hum of the city awakening to all its cheerful activities; the new day has brought with it new desires, new hopes.  He threw open the windows.  The morning air was cold and sweet—­the sparrows were beginning to chirp in the garden-plots below.  Surely that black night was over and gone.

If only he could see Natalie for one moment, to assure her that he had succumbed but once, and for the last time, to despair.  It was a confession he was bound to make; it would not lessen her trust in him.  For now all through his soul a sweet, clear voice was ringing:  it was the song the sunrise had brought him; it was the voice of Natalie herself, with all its proud pathos and fervor, as he had heard it in the olden days: 

    “A little time we gain from time
     To set our seasons in some chime,
       For harsh or sweet, or loud or low,
       With seasons played out long ago—­
     And souls that in their time and prime
       Took part with summer or with snow,
     Lived abject lives out or sublime,
       And had there chance of seed to sow
     For service or disservice done
     To those days dead and this their son.

    “A little time that we may fill
     Or with such good works or such ill
       As loose the bonds or make them strong,
       Wherein all manhood suffers wrong. 
     By rose-hung river and light-foot rill
       There are who rest not; who think long
     Till they discern, as from a hill,
       At the sun’s hour of morning song,
     Known of souls only, and those souls free,
     The sacred spaces of the sea.”

Surely it was still for him and her together to stand on some such height, hand-in-hand, and watch the sunrise come over the sea and awakening world.  They would forget the phantoms of the night, and the traitors gone down to Erubus; perhaps, for this new life together, they might seek a new clime.  There was work for them still; and faith, and hope, and the constant assurance of love:  the future might perchance be all the more beautiful because of these dark perils of the past.

As he lay thus communing with himself, the light shining in on his haggard face, Waters came into the room, and was greatly concerned to find that not only had his master not been to bed, but that the supper left out for him the night before had not been touched.  Brand rose, without betraying any impatience over his attendant’s pertinacious inquiries and remonstrances.  He went and got writing materials, and wrote as follows: 

“Dear Evelyn,—­If you could go over to Naples for me—­at once—­I would take it as a great favor.  I cannot go myself.  Whether or not, come to see me at Lisle Street to-day, by twelve.