The ominous light fell full upon the little boat and full upon Beatrice's lips.

Then it passed on and lost itself in the deep mists which still swathed the coast.
"Oh, how beautiful it is!" she cried, raising herself and pointing to the glory of the dying sun.
"It is beautiful indeed!" he answered, but he looked, not at the sunset, but at the woman's face before him, glowing like a saint's in its golden aureole.

For this also was most beautiful--so beautiful that it stirred him strangely.
"It is like----" she began, and broke off suddenly.
"What is it like ?" he asked.
"It is like finding truth at last," she answered, speaking as much to herself as to him.

"Why, one might make an allegory out of it.

We wander in mist and darkness shaping a vague course for home.