Yet Antony knew that his love could never die, but only suffer.
During these days he half turned to Beatrice.

How kind was her simple earth-warm affection, after the star-cold transcendentalism in which he had been living! How full of comfort was her unselfish humanity, after the pitiless egoism of the divine! And yet, while it momentarily soothed him, he realised, with a heart sad for Beatrice as for himself, that it could never satisfy him again.

For days he left Silencieux alone in the wood, and Beatrice's face brightened with their renewed companionship; but all the time he seemed to hear Silencieux calling him, and he knew that he would have to go back.
One night, almost happy again, as he lay by the side of Beatrice, who was sleeping deeply, he rose stealthily, and looked out into the wood.
The moonlight fell through it mysteriously, as on that night when he had stolen up there to meet Silencieux--"at the rising of the moon." He could hesitate no longer.

Leaving Beatrice asleep, he was soon making his way once more through the moonlit trees.
The little chalet looked very still and solemn, like a temple of Chaldean mysteries, and an unwonted chill of fear passed through Antony as he stood in the circle of moonlight outside.

His spirit seemed aware of some dread menace to the future in that moment, and a voice was crying within him to go back.
But the longing that had brought him so far was too strong for such undefined warnings.