There had been something else--what was it? He felt as if a
mist had newly arisen to cloud his faculties. There had been something
else which had made him not quite himself as he had stood there with
his arms about the woman who had been Weir, and yet not Weir. Above
the pain and joy and passion which had shaken him, there had been
an unmistakable perception of--an attribute--a quality--of another
sort--of a power, of which he, Harold Dartmouth, had never been
conscious--of--of--ah, yes! of the power to pour out at the feet of
that woman, in richest verse, the love she had awakened, and make them
both immortal. What were the words? They had been written legibly in
his brain; he remembered now. He had seen and read them--yes, at last,
at last! "Her face! her form!" No! no! not that again. Oh, why would
they not come? They had been there, the words; the sense must be
there, the inspiration, the battling for voice and victory. They were
ready to pour through his speech in a flood of song, but that iron
hand forced them back--down, down, setting blood and brain on fire.
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