CHAPTER XXVI
THE SWORD HANGS
(1885—1890)
Life is no holiday: therein
Are want and woe and sin,
Death with nameless fears; and over all
Our pitying tears must fall.
The hour draws near, howe'er delayed or late,
When, at the Eternal Gate,
We leave the words and works we call our own,
And lift void hands alone
For love to fill. Our nakedness of soul
Brings to that gate no toll:
Giftless we come to Him who all things gives;
And live because He lives.
IN May, 1885, Isabel started with her husband for England. They travelled together as far as Venice, and here, as often, they parted, and went their separate ways. Burton was ordered to go by sea for his health, and his wife arranged to proceed by land. She went round by way of Bologna, and thence travelled via Milan and Paris, and arrived in London on June 2. Her husband joined her twelve days later.
