He turned upon the pillow so that he could see the light burning before
the Madonna. The face of the Madonna was faintly visible--a long, meek
face with downcast eyes. Maddalena crossed herself often when she looked
at that face. Maurice put up his hand to make the sign, then dropped it
with a heavy sigh. He was not a Catholic. His religion--what was it?
Sunworship perhaps, the worship of the body, the worship of whim. He did
not know or care much. He felt so full of life and energy that the far,
far future after death scarcely interested him. The present was his
concern, the present after that kiss in the night. He had loved Hermione.
Surely he loved her now. He did love her now. And yet when he had kissed
her he had never been shaken by the headstrong sensation that had hold of
him to-night, the desire to run wild in love. He looked up to Hermione.
The feeling of reverence had been a governing factor in his love for her.
Now it seemed to him that a feeling of reverence was a barrier in the
path of love, something to create awe, admiration, respect, but scarcely
the passion that irresistibly draws man to woman. And yet he did love
Hermione. He was confused, horribly confused.

For he knew that his longing was towards Maddalena.

He would like to rise up in the dawn, to take her in his arms, to carry
her off in a boat upon the sea, or to set her on a mule and lead her up
far away into the recesses of the mountains. By rocky paths he would lead
her, beyond the olives and the vines, beyond the last cottage of the
contadini, up to some eyrie from which they could look down upon the
sunlit world. He wanted to be in wildness with her, inexorably divided
from all the trammels of civilization. A desire of savagery had hold upon
him to-night. He did not go into detail. He did not think of how they
would pass their days. Everything presented itself to him broadly,
tumultuously, with a surging, onward movement of almost desperate
advance.