They knew what the prince was saying, they had the secret and yet--they were _no nearer, no nearer_ than he.

With their ancient kindliness naked in their faces, St.George knew that through his love he was as near to the Source as were they.

And it was suddenly as it had been that first night when he had stridden buoyantly through the island; for he could not tell which was the secret of the prince and of these people and which was the blessedness of his love.
None the less he clung desperately to the last words of Prince Tabnit in a vain effort to hold, to make clear, to sophisticate one single phrase, as one waking in the night says over, in a vain effort to fix it, some phantom sentence cried to him in dreams by a shadowy band destined to be dissolved when, in bright day, he would reclaim it.

He even managed frantically to write down a jumble of words of which he could make nothing, save here and there a phrase like a touch of hands from the silence: "...the infinite moment that is pending" ...

"all is become a window where had been a wall" ...
"the wintry vision" ...