Then they were gone, the vision of Beatrice was gone, and suddenly he awoke.
Oh, what was this flood of inarticulate, passion-laden thought that beat upon his brain telling of Beatrice?
Wave after wave it came, utterly overwhelming him, like the heavy breath of flowers stirred by a night wind--like a message from another world.

It was real; it was no dream, no fancy; she was present with him though she was not there; her thought mingled with his thought, her being beat upon his own.

His heart throbbed, his limbs trembled, he strove to understand and could not.

But in the mystery of that dread communion, the passion he had trodden down and refused acknowledgment took life and form within him; it grew like the Indian's magic tree, from seed to blade, from blade to bud, and from bud to bloom.

In that moment it became clear to him: he knew he loved her, and knowing what such a love must mean, for him if not for her, Geoffrey sank back and groaned.
And Beatrice?
Of a sudden she ceased speaking to herself; she felt her thought flung back to her weighted with another's thought.