[Illustration: LES BAUX FROM THE ROAD TO ST. REMY, SHOWING PLATFORM IN FRONT OF CHURCH OF ST. VINCENT. _By E. M. Synge._]
We had visited her place of burial in the church behind us; a sad, silent spot that might have supplied a text for many a solemn sermon.
Mouldering walls and an empty grave. But they breathed forth no solemnities to us, or at least no gloomy ones. Rather they whispered of the mystery and power of life and passion; of things potent, creative, immortal.
Nor could we believe that the vivid consciousness of self and soul in that being to whom we sent our thoughts could be less enduring than the mere echo of her words and deeds in a universe where not a breath in the air or a tremor of the ether can ever be truly lost.
It was impossible not to speculate further regarding the real self of the woman as distinct from the self which reflected the world of the twelfth century. What that world expected of her we know, and so we know a very large part of the reality, for the emotions of most of us are the product of this eternal outside suggestion.
But there is sometimes--perhaps always--deep down in the being, a hidden spot that acknowledges no such dictation; and here would spring up yearnings and criticisms, revolts and despairs, while the wife of the feudal seigneur punctually and uncomplainingly fulfilled the demands of her position.
Did she ever, even for a moment, see the grim reality of that position, or was it hidden from her eyes by tradition, habit, by the little palliatives and privileges which her power as a woman and a beautiful woman, would win for her at this auspicious moment of new-born homage for her sex?
It is not at all unlikely that some inkling of the strange situation would drift across the consciousness now and again, for it is just at the moment when a burden grows a little less overwhelming that the bearer begins to cry out against its oppression. Before then he has no breath with which to cry!
Personal trouble and the sting of unhappy love might have stirred momentary feelings that would link our heroine of the golden hair with her sisters of future generations. It is unthinkable that such feelings were never in the hearts of women, in some form or other, in the days of their darkest captivity.
