All
of her spirit, mightier than ever before, went out to meet the spirit of
the sea--hating it, defying it, understanding its own futility, and the
more hot from the sense of impotence. That died to desolation. She had
never been so wholly desolate--the sea so mighty, she so powerless. Fate
and human souls were like that.
Karl--where was he? Swept out by the ocean of fate. To what shore had he
been carried? What thought he of the tide which had carried him out from
her? Was his soul, like hers, spending itself in the passion of
rebellion--so mighty as to shake the foundations of one's being, so
futile as to prevail against not one drop of water in that sea of fate?
Time passed; the tide was still coming in, nearing its height. But to the
sea there had come a change. The spirit of it seemed different. For a
long time she sat there dimly conscious of a difference, and then it
seemed as though the sea were trying to reach her with something it had
to bring.
She tried to shake herself free from so strange a fancy, but it held her,
and for a long time she sat there motionless, looking out at the sea with
all her eyes, reaching out to it with all her soul, becoming more and
more still,--a hush upon her whole being,--moved, held, unreasoningly
expectant.
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