Past the door, she turned to the left, not glancing at the
aligned Caesars, scarcely bowing to Demeter of the remote gaze. In that
long gallery, where the Caryatid thrusts her bosom that her neck may be
the prouder to the weight, she saw the objects of her present pilgrimage--
beaten, blind, and dumb, immovable as the eternal hills, the Attic Fates;
and before them at gaze, his arms folded over his narrow chest, Morosine
the Pole.
Whether she had sought him here or not, she did not falter in her advance.
Smoothly, swiftly, and silently she came to him and stood by his side. He
turned his head, looked sharply at her pale face and sad eyes, then
resumed his meditation before the Three. Neither of them had a care to
speak.
Presently Morosine said, "I knew that you would be here." He kept his face
towards the mystery, and so did she when she echoed him. "Did you know
that? You know me, I think."
"I believe that I do. You have come here for strength. You will get it."
Ruefully enough she answered, "I wish I could believe that."
"You have it in you already. These great ladies will call it out. I wish
you had been here, say, the day before yesterday. They might have helped
you.
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