The dead never spoke to her, and she never spoke to them.

Sometimes it seemed as if they spoke to each other, but, if it were so, it concerned some shadowy matter, no more to her than the talk of grasshoppers in the field, or of beetles that weave their much-involved dances on the face of the pool.

Their voices were even too thin and remote to rouse her to listen.
They came at length to a great mountain, and, as they were going up the mountain, light began to grow, as if the sun were beginning to rise.
But she cared as little for the sun that was to light the day as for the moon that had lighted the night, and closed her eyes, that she might cover her soul with her eyelids.
Of a sudden a great splendor burst upon her, and through her eyelids she was struck blind--blind with light and not with darkness, for all was radiance about her.

She was like a fish in a sea of light.

But she neither loved the light nor mourned the shadow.
Then were her ears invaded with a confused murmur, as of the mingling of all sweet sounds of the earth--of wind and water, of bird and voice, of string and metal--all afar and indistinct.