CHAPTER XI.
VITA NUOVA.
De Arthenay never knew how he reached home that day.

The spot where he had been lying was several miles from the white cottage, yet he was conscious of no time, no distance.

It seemed one burning moment, a moment never to be forgotten while he lived, till he found himself at the foot of the outer stairway, the stair that led to the attic.

She might still be living, and he would not go to her without the thing she craved, the thing which could speak to her in the voice she understood.
Again a moment of half-consciousness, and he was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, looking in with blind eyes of dread.

What should he see?
what still form might break the outline of that white bed which she always kept so smooth and trim?
The silence cried out to him with a thousand voices, threatening, condemning, blasting; but the next moment it was broken.
"Mon ami!" said Marie.