And quivering cypress, and the stately plane
And berry-laden laurel. A brook's wimpling waters strayed
Lashed into foam, but dancing on again
And rolling pebbles in their chattering flow.
'Twas Love's own nook,
As forest nightingale and urban Procne undertook
To bear true witness; hovering, the gleaming grass above
And tender violets; wooing with song, their stolen love.

Fanning herself with a branch of flowering myrtle, she lay, stretched out
with her marble neck resting upon a golden cushion. When she caught
sight of me she blushed faintly; she recalled yesterday's affront, I
suppose. At her invitation, I sat down by her side, as soon as the
others had gone; whereupon she put the branch of myrtle over my face and
emboldened, as if a wall had been raised between us, "Well, Mr.
Paralytic," she teased, "have you brought all of yourself along today?"
"Why ask me," I replied, "why not try me instead?" and throwing myself
bodily into her arms, I revelled in her kisses with no witchcraft to stop
me.




CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SECOND.

The loveliness of her form drew me to her and summoned me to love. Our
lips were pressed together in a torrent of smacking kisses, our groping
hands had discovered every trick of excitation, and our bodies, clasped
in a mutual embrace, had fused our souls into one, (and then, in the very
midst of these ravishing preliminaries my nerves again played me false