"I never understood before," said Corydon.

"That is the idea the minstrel tries to voice to the princess. At
first he pours out his soul to her; but then, when he finds that she
loves him, he is afraid, and tries to persuade her not to come with
him. He tells her how lonely and stern his life is; and she has been
born to a gentle life--she has her station and her duty in the
world. But the more he pleads the hardness of his life, the more she
sees she must go with him. Even if the end be death to her, still
she will be an inspiration to him, and give wings to his music. 'Be
silent,' she tells him--'let me fling myself away for a song! To do
one deed that the world remembers, to utter one word that lives
forever--that is worth all the failure and the agony that can come
to one woman in her lifetime!'"

Corydon sat with her hands clasped. "Yes," she said, "that is the
way she would feel!"

"I'm glad to hear you say that," remarked the other. "I must make it
real; and I've been afraid about it. Would she really go with him?"

"She would go if she loved him," said Corydon.

"If she loved him. But she must love his art still more."

"She must love _him,"_ said Corydon.

Thyrsis shook his head. "It would not do for her to go with him for
that," he said.