the past slumber. Then, weary of the effort, her thoughts allowed themselves to float.
Pierre pondered over the days of his short, expended life. The lark that rises from the misty plain to reach the sun . . . How far it is! How high it is! Will it ever be reached? . . . The fog thickens. There is no earth any more, there are no heavens any more. And strength gives out . . . Suddenly, while beneath the vault of the choir a Gregorian vocalise trickled down, the jubilant song gushed forth, and out from the shadows emerges the little shivering form of the lark that swims on the sea of light without shore. . . .
A pressure of their fingers recalled to them that they were swimming together. They found themselves again in the darkness of the church, closely pressed together, listening to the beautiful chants; their hearts melted with love and touched the summits of the purest joy. And both of them desired—they prayed—never to descend to earth again.
