The fatigue which had reached such a painful climax had, during this peaceful rest, given way to a blissful unconsciousness of self.

It was a kind of happiness to feel no longer the burden of exhaustion, and the song of the wanderers was like a cradle-song, lulling her to sweet dreams.

It filled her with gladness, and yet it was not glad, not even cheerful.

It went to her heart, and yet it was not mournful-not in the least like the passionate lament of Isis for Osiris, or that of Demeter bewailing her daughter.

The emotion it aroused in her was a sweetly sorrowful compassion, which included herself, her brothers, her father, her lover, all who were doomed to suffering and death, even the utter stranger, for whom she had hitherto felt no sympathy.
And the compassion bore within it a sense of comfort which she could not explain, or perhaps would not inquire into.