She had always loved these words and thought them the most beautiful in the book, but now they came to her with the newness of the first spring morning that ever dawned upon the world.  The depth of them was laid bare to her, and, with that depth, the depth of her own heart.  The paralysis of anguish passed from her.  She no longer looked to Nature as one dumbly seeking help.  For they led her to herself, and made her look into herself and her own love and know it.  “When frightened it is not disturbed—­it securely passeth through all.”  That was absolutely true—­true as her love.  She looked down into her love, and she saw there the face of God, but thought she saw the face of human love only.  And it was so beautiful and so strong that even the tears upon it gave her courage, and she said to herself:  “Nothing matters, nothing can matter so long as I have this love within me.  He is going away, but I am not sad, for I am going with him—­my love, all that I am—­that is going with him, will always be with him.”

Just then it seemed to her that if she had seen Androvsky lying dead before her on the sand she could not have felt unhappy.  Nothing could do harm to a great love.  It was the one permanent, eternally vital thing, clad in an armour of fire that no weapon could pierce, free of all terror from outside things because it held its safety within its own heart, everlastingly enough, perfectly, flawlessly complete for and in itself.  For that moment fear left her, restlessness left her.  Anyone looking in upon her from the garden would have looked in upon a great, calm happiness.

Presently there came a step upon the sand of the garden walks.  A man, going slowly, with a sort of passionate reluctance, as if something immensely strong was trying to hold him back, but was conquered with difficulty by something still stronger that drove him on, came out of the fierce sunshine into the shadow of the garden, and began to search its silent recesses.  It was Androvsky.  He looked bowed and old and guilty.  The two lines near his mouth were deep.  His lips were working.  His thin cheeks had fallen in like the cheeks of a man devoured by a wasting illness, and the strong tinge of sunburn on them seemed to be but an imperfect mark to a pallor that, fully visible, would have been more terrible than that of a corpse.  In his eyes there was a fixed expression of ferocious grief that seemed mingled with ferocious anger, as if he were suffering from some dreadful misery, and cursed himself because he suffered, as a man may curse himself for doing a thing that he chooses to do but need not do.  Such an expression may sometimes be seen in the eyes of those who are resisting a great temptation.