It seemed to her that there was the look of a conqueror in his eyes; but she did not intend to be conquered.  Neither did she wish to appear as the one who had remained at home and speculated on his return.  That would be simply to turn all that was most cherished, most unselfish in her life, against herself.  Something in him frightened her, something which, perhaps, he himself could not master—­his inward agitation.  It was not boisterous or terrifying; it was glowing, earnest zeal, which seemed to deprive him of power and her of will, and this she would not endure.

Hardly had they gained the summit from which they could look out over the islands to the open sea, and across to Hellebergene, to the parsonage, and the river flowing into the inner bay, than he turned away from it all towards her, as she stood with heaving breast, glowing cheeks, and eyes which dare not turn away from the sea.

“Helene,” he whispered, approaching her; he wished to take her in his arms.

She trembled, although she did not turn round; the next moment she sprang away from him, and did not pause till she had got down to the boat, which she was about to push off, but bethought herself that it would be too cowardly, so she remained standing and watched him come after her.

“Helene,” he called from above, “why do you run away from me?”

“Rafael, you must not,” she answered when he rejoined her.  The strongest accent of both prayer and command of which a powerful nature is capable sounded in her words.  She in the boat, he on the shore; they eyed one another like two antagonists, watchful and breathing hard, till he loosed the boat, stepped in and pushed off.

She took her seat; but before doing the same he said: 

“You know quite well what I wanted to say to you.”  He spoke with difficulty.

She did not answer and got out her oars; her tears were ready to flow.  They rowed home again more slowly than they had come.

A lark hovered over their heads.  The note of a thrush was heard away inland.  A guillemot skimmed over the water in the same direction as their own, and a tern on curved wing screamed in their wake.  There was a sense of expectation over all.  The scent of the young fir-trees and the heather was wafted out to them; farther in lay the flowery meadows of Hellebergene.  At a great distance an eagle could be seen, high in air, winging his way from the mountains, followed by a flock of screaming crows, who imagined that they were chasing him.  Rafael drew Helene’s attention to them.

“Yes, look at them,” she said; and these few words, spoken naturally, helped to put both more at their ease.  He looked round at her and smiled, and she smiled back at him.  He felt in the seventh heaven of delight, but it must not be spoken.  But the oars seemed to repeat in measured cadence, “It—­is—­she.  It—­is—­she.  It—­is—­she.”  He said to himself, Is not her resistance a thousand times sweeter than—­