Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 2 (1925-02).djvu/160

loved him. You are distraught with grief. Come, let me take you home where you can rest and calm yourself."

As they went she still tried to convince him.

"He wants revenge."

"But he has vengeance. Polevay is dead."

"Oh, but you do not know that he is here asking me every day, asking me something—it must be that! I know, I know now where the dead go—into the all-ness of things: they are one with the sun and sky and rain—did you know that?"

He shook his head.

"Ah."

Her voice sank to a whisper.

"Then you have never been haunted by an April day! He touches me in the petals of flowers. He breathes in the growing of the grass; and all the day long in the wind or rain he speaks, asking for something. He is all around me—I live in him—we are nearer in death than in life. If it is not revenge that he wants of me, what is it?"

Her voice choked with tears.

"Fayrian" (she looked up at him again) "was poisoned like a dog."

They were at the gate now, and the man left her. She watched him go back down the path, shaking his head, and she smiled, for she knew that he thought her mad. She closed her eyes. Whispers, whispers! The wind had a taste of brine in it, blowing from the sea, singing around the cliff. She would go and watch the waves and hear them, for he must be there, too, he who was a part of all things. Perhaps, somehow, she would yet be able to understand him.

She took the path that led away from the stone gate and twisted up to the cliff. Fayrian did not want her to be hanged, so no one would believe her. She knew he had not wanted that. The wind bore her bodily up the path in its triumphant rush. It was swift, insistent, like a restless child tugging her impatiently toward some favorite playground; and soon she was at the top, looking down into the green water with its kissing, curling waves, while the wind romped and shouted around her noisily. It blew her long hair from the comb, spilling it down her back, and flung the folds of her cloak back from her white neck. And suddenly, clearly, it seemed to roar the answer to her questionings.

What could Fayrian want? Only two things. He wanted her; and he had wished to die bravely, splendidly—she had robbed him of these. Her life, roared the wind: it was his life also, and she could send it out to death beautifully, splendidly, as he would have wished.

Standing on the edge of the cliff, she balanced herself a moment against the wind—the feel of his strong arms—and looked down into the green water. That, too, was he, waiting for her. The waves foamed and curled expectantly. She stepped over the edge of the rocks. The water rushed up to meet her; it roared about her ears; and there was a note of triumph in its song as it received the Lady Ermengarde in its embracing arms.