XXXVI. Ariadne Discrowns Herself

that last interview with Dino had never been for many hours together out of her mind. And it solicited her all the more, because while its remembered images pressed upon her almost with the imperious force of sensations, they raised struggling thoughts which resisted their influence. She could not prevent herself from hearing inwardly the dying prophetic voice saying again and again⁠—“The man whose face was a blank loosed thy hand and departed; and as he went, I could see his face, and it was the face of the great Tempter⁠ ⁠… And thou, Romola, didst wring thy hands and seek for water, and there was none⁠ ⁠… and the plain was bare and stony again, and thou wast alone in the midst of it. And then it seemed that the night fell, and I saw no more.” She could not prevent herself from dwelling with a sort of agonised fascination on the wasted face; on the straining gaze at the crucifix; on the awe which had compelled her to kneel; on the last broken words and then the unbroken silence⁠—on all the details of the death-scene, which had seemed like a sudden opening into a world apart from that of her lifelong knowledge.