"RESURGAM!" "Resurgam!" Had his senses deceived him?
They must have deceived him.

And yet that music at least had seemed startlingly near, sudden, and sweet, as though one should tread upon a harp in the grass.

For the next day or two Antony could not get it out of his ears, and often, like a sweet wail through the wood, he seemed to hear the word "Resurgam." Was Silencieux a living spirit, after all,--no mere illusion, but one of those beautiful demons of evil that do possess the souls of men?
He went and stood by Silencieux's grave.

It was just as he had left it.
Only an early yellow butterfly stood fanning itself on the freshly turned earth.
Was it the soul of Silencieux?
Cursing himself for a madman, he turned away, but had not gone many yards, when once more--there was that sudden strain of music and the word "Resurgam" somewhere on the wind.
This time he knew he was not mistaken, but to believe it true--O God, he must not believe it true.

Reality or fancy, it was an evil thing which he had cast out of his life--and he closed his ears and fled.
Yet, though he loyally strove to quench that music in the sound of Beatrice's voice, deep in his heart he knew that the night would come when he would take his lantern and spade, wearily, as one who at length after hopeless striving obeys once more some imperious weakness--and look on the face of Silencieux again.
Too surely that night came, and, as in a dream, Antony found himself in the dark spring night hastening with lantern and spade to Silencieux's grave.