For nearly a month after the occasion of his first answer nothing new occurred.
Some nights it failed him entirely; upon others it was faint, illusive.
Then, at last, the most subtle, the barest of perceptible changes began.
His groping mind far-off there, wandering like a lost bird over the valley, touched upon some thing again, touched and held it and this time drew it a single step closer to him.

His heart beating, the blood surging in his temples, he watched with the eyes of his imagination, this gradual approach.

What was coming to him?
Who was coming to him?
Shrouded in the obscurity of the night, whose was the face now turned towards his?
Whose the footsteps that with such infinite slowness drew nearer to where he waited?
He did not dare to say.
His mind went back many years to that time before the tragedy of Angele's death, before the mystery of the Other.

He waited then as he waited now.

But then he had not waited in vain.