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hear exactly what it said -- but what matter if they caught the
meaning? - how again and again the wave sweeps in splendour up
the beach. The voice entreated the sleepers, if they would not
actually come to the beach itself, at least to lift the blind and
look out. They would see how the robes of the august God flowed
down; hew his head was crowned; his sceptre jewelled; and in his
eyes a child might look. And if the sleepers still faltered, and
said, No: that it was vapour this splendour of his, and the dew
had more power than he, without complaint without argument, the
voice would sing its song. Gently the waves would break; tenderly
the light would beam. And everything in the room -- cupboards, basins,
tables, -- freshly ordered, straitly ranged - seemed to lie under the
enchantment, placed more statelily to-night, conscious more gravely
to-night of an order, of a purpose, which when day broke would be
revealed.
     Indeed, the voice might resume, as the leaves of the passion
flower tapped the window, and the mazy pattern of leaf, chair,
table all waved on the floor, he was content with this; it was
enough this -- to fold the sleepers round in blue, to be, should
they need him, waiting them there.
     After all then why not agree? accept? Without losing their
scepticism or sinking into the depths of acquiescence, they might,
half turned, look out: assume some look that was not any longer
rapture; lie watchfully awake and see how through a chink of the
blind the splendid monarch flowed down; hear the b vast sigh of

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