How and when the
encounter might take place, he did not trouble himself to consider. The
whole universe was moulded and set for that event. Meantime the glory
was about him; he could remember, recall, repeat, interpret....
For the hundredth time--or was it the thousandth?--he reconstructed that
last hour of theirs together in the station at Miradero, waiting for the
train. What had they said to each other? Commonplaces, mostly, and at
times with effort, as if they were making conversation. They two! After
that passionate and revealing moment between life and death on the
island. What should he have said to her? Begged her to stay? On what
basis? How could he?.... As the distant roar of the train warned them
that the time of parting was close, it was she who broke through that
strange restraint, turning upon him her old-time limpid and resolute
regard.
"Ban; promise me something."
"Anything."
"There may be a time coming for us when you won't understand."
"Understand what?"
"Me. Perhaps I shan't understand myself."
"You'll always understand yourself, Io."
"If that comes--when that comes--Ban, there's something in the book,
_our_ book, that I've left you to read."
"'The Voices'?"
"Yes. I've fastened the pages together so that you can't read it too
soon.
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