rest with its own song in some deep shadowed copse. Here, on a
couch of heaped-up, stemless roses, such as might have been
prepared for the repose of Titania, Lysia seated herself, while
Theos stood gazing at her in fascinated wonderment and gradually
increasing masterfulness of passion. She looked lovelier than ever
in that dim, soft, mingled light of rosy lamp and silver
moonbeams,--her smile was no longer cold but warmly sweet,--her
eyes had lost their mocking glitter, and swam in a soft languor
that was strangely bewitching,--even the Orbed Symbol on her white
bosom seemed for once to drowse. Her lips parted in a faint sigh,--
a glance like fire flashed from beneath her black, silken lashes,
...

"Theos!" she said tremulously. "Theos!" and waited.

He, mute and oppressed by indistinct, hovering recollections, fed
his gaze on her seductive fairness for one earnest moment longer,
--then suddenly advancing he knelt before her, and took her
unresisting hands in his.

"Lysia!"--and his voice, even to his own ears, had a solemn as
well as passionate thrill,--"Lysia, what wouldst thou have with
me? Speak! ... for my heart aches with a burden of dark memories,
--memories conjured up by the wizard spell of thine eyes,--those
eyes so cruel-sweet that seem to lure me to my soul's ruin! Tell
me--have we not met before? ... loved before? ... wronged each
other and God before? ... parted before? ... Maybe 'tis but a
brain sick fancy,--nevertheless my spirit knows thee,--feels
thee,--clings to thee,--and yet recoils from thee as one whom I
did love in by-gone days of old! My thoughts of thee are strange,