before its hour of perfume.





VIII.


Again, who was this woman? Was she a being like myself, or one of those
visions which, like living meteors, shoot athwart the sky of our
imagination, dazzling the eye? Was she of my own country, or from some
distant land, from some island of the tropics, or the far East, whither
I could not follow her? After adoring her for a few days, might I not
have to mourn forever her absence? Was her heart free to respond to
mine? Was it likely that enthralling beauty such as hers should have
traversed the world and reached maturity without kindling love in some
of those upon whom the glance of her eye had fallen? Had she a father
or a mother, brothers or sisters? Was she not married? Was there not
one man in the world who, though separated from her by inexplicable
circumstances, lived for her only, as she lived for him?

All this I said to myself, to drive away this one besetting, hopeless
fancy. I scorned even to make inquiries. I was too much of a stoic to
strive to penetrate the unknown, and thought it more dignified, or
perhaps more pleasant, to go on dreaming in uncertainty.