Soon she was struggling out of her depth.

These weeks of rushing experience had been loosening soul and tongue.

To-night how she could have talked of these things to one now parted from her, perhaps for ever! How he would have listened to her--impatiently often! How he would have mocked and rent her! But then the quick softening--and the beautiful kindling eye--the dogmatism at once imperative and sweet--the tyranny that a woman might both fight and love! Yet how painful was the thought of Manisty! She was ashamed--humiliated.
Their flight assumed as a certainty what after all, let Eleanor say what she would, he had never, never said to her--what she had no clear authority to believe.

Where was he?
What was he thinking?
For a moment, her heart fluttered towards him like a homing bird.
Then in a sharp and stern reaction she rebuked, she chastened herself.
Standing there in the night, above the forests, looking over to the dim white cliffs on the side of Monte Amiata, she felt herself, in this strange and beautiful land, brought face to face with calls of the spirit, with deep voices of admonition and pity that rose from her own inmost being.
With a long sigh, like one that lifts a weight she raised her young arms above her head, and then brought her hands down slowly upon her eyes, shutting out sight and sense.

There was a murmur-- 'Mother!--darling mother!--if you were just here--for one hour--' She gathered up the forces of the soul.
'So help me God!' she said.