ears with the same sacred suggestiveness as that conveyed by the
chime of bells,--surely, Love was a holy thing, ... a passion
pure, impersonal, divine, and deathless,--and it seemed to him
that somewhere it had been written or said ... "Wheresoever a man
seeketh himself, there he falleth from Love" And he, ... did he
not seek himself, and the gratification of his own immediate
pleasure? Painfully he considered, ... it was a supreme moment
with him,--a moment when he felt himself to be positively held
within the grasp of some great Archangel, who, turning grandly
reproachful eyes upon him, demanded ...

"Art thou the Servant of Love or the Slave of Self?" And while he
remained silent, the silken sweet voice of the fairest woman he
had ever seen once more sent its musical cadence through his brain
in that fateful question:

"Thou dost love me?"

A deep sigh broke from him, ... he moved nearer to her, ... he
entwined her warm waist with his arms, and stared upon her as
though he drank her beauty in with his eyes. Up to the crowning
masses of her dusky hair where the little serpents' heads darted
forth glisteningly,--over the dainty curve of her white shoulders
and bosom where the symbolic Eye seemed to regard him with a
sleepy weirdness,--down to the blue-veined, small feet in the
silvery sandals, and up again to the red witchery of her mouth and
black splendor of those twin fire-jewels that flashed beneath her
heavy lashes--his gaze wandered hungrily, searchingly,
passionately,--his heart beat with a loud, impatient eagerness
like a wild thing struggling in its cage, but though his lips