and she says, 'He ought to tell her.' She says it earnestly,
vehemently. That means that if she were the woman, she would
wish to be told. She will despise the conventional barriers
--she will be touched, she will be moved. 'No woman could be
proof against such a compliment.' Go to her to-morrow, and
tell her--and all will be well."

At these moments he would look up towards the castle, and
picture the morrow's consummation; and his heart would have a
convulsion. Imagination flew on the wings of his desire. She
stood before him in all her sumptuous womanhood, tender and
strong and glowing. As he spoke, her eyes lightened, her eyes
burned, the blood came and went in her cheeks; her lips parted.
Then she whispered something; and his heart leapt terribly; and
he called her name--"Beatrice! Beatrice!" Her name expressed
the inexpressible--the adoring passion, the wild hunger and
wild triumph of his soul. But now she was moving towards him
--she was holding out her hands. He caught her in his arms--he
held her yielding body in his arms. And his heart leapt
terribly, terribly. And he wondered how he could endure, how
he could live through, the hateful hours that must elapse
before tomorrow would be to-day.

But "hearts, after leaps, ache." Presently the whirl would
begin again; and then, by and by, in another lull, a contrary
answer would seem equally plain.

"Tell her, indeed? My dear man, are you mad? She would simply
be amazed, struck dumb, by your presumption. I can see from
here her incredulity--I can see the scorn with which she would