passedby
her
.
She
gave
no
sign
that
she
heard
,
not
by
so
much
as
the
quiver
of
a
muscle
or
the
glance
of
an
eye
;
but
she
,
nevertheless
,
was
stung
by
them
to
the
core
.
For
they
showed
her
how
worthless
and
friendless
a
thing
had
dared
to
dream
that
she
might
be
of
service
to
the
life
of
Arslàn
.
Not
one
of
them
,
man
or
boy
,
but
made
a
mock
of
her
as
they
trooped
by
through
the
purpling
leaves
or
the
tall
seed‐grasses
.
Not
one
of
them
,
mother
or
maiden
,
that
gave
a
gentle
look
at
her
,
paused
to
remember
that
she
was
homeless
,
and
knew
no
more
where
to
lay
her
head
that
night
than
any
sick
hart
driven
from
its
kind
.
She
met
many
in
the
soft
grey
and
golden
evening
,
in
the
fruit‐hung
ways
,
along
the
edge
of
the
meadows
;
fathers
with
their
little
children
running
by
them
,
laden
with
plumes
of
night‐shade
;
mothers
bearing
their
youngest
born
before
them
on
the
high
sheepskin
saddle
;
young
lovers
talking
together
as
they
drove
the
old
cow
to
her
byre
;
old
people
counting
their
market
gains
cheerily
;
children
paddling
knee‐deep
in
the
brooks
for
cresses
.
None
of
them
had
a
kindly
glance
for
her
;
—
all
had
a
flouting
word
.
There
was
not
one
who
offered
her
so
much
as
a
draught
of
milk
;
not
one
who
wished
her
so
much
as
a
brief
good‐night
.
“
She
will
quit
the
country
now
;
that
is
one
good
thing
,
”
she
heard
many
of
them
say
of
her
.
And
they
spoke
of
Flamma
,
and
praised
him
;
saying
,
how
pure
as
myrrh
in
the
nostrils
was
the
death
of
one
who
feared
God
.
The
night
came
on
nearer
;
the
ways
grew
more
lonely
;
the
calf
bleating
sought
its
dam
,
the
sheep
folded
down
close
together
,
the
lights
came
out
under
the
lowly
roofs
;
now
and
then
from
some
open
window
in
the
distance
there
came
the
sound
of
voices
singing
together
;
now
and
then
there
fell
across
her
path
two
shadows
turning
one
to
the
other
.
She
only
was
alone
.
What
did
she
seek
to
do
?
She
paused
on
a
little
slip
of
moss‐green
timber
that
crossed
the
water
in
the
open
plain
,
and
looked
down
at
herself
in
the
shining
stream
.
None
desired
her
—
none
remembered
her
;
none
said
to
her
,
“
Stay
with
us
a
little
,
for
love’s
sake
.
”
“
Surely
I
must
be
vile
as
they
say
,
that
all
are
against
me
!
”
she
thought
;
and
she
pondered
wearily
in
her
heart
where
her
sin
against
them
could
lie
.
That
brief
delirious
trance
of
joy
that
had
come
to
her
with
the
setting
of
the
last
day’s
sun
,
had
with
the
sun
sunk
away
.
The
visions
which
had
haunted
her
sleep
under
the
thorn‐tree
whilst
the
thrush
sang
,
had
been
killed
under
the
cold
and
bitterness
of
the
waking
world
.
She
wondered
,
while
her
face
grew
red
with
shame
,
what
she
had
been
mad
enough
to
dream
of
in
that
sweet
,
cruel
slumber
.
For
him
—
she
felt
that
sooner
than
again
look
upward
to
his
eyes
she
would
die
by
a
thousand
deaths
.
What
was
she
to
him
?
—
a
barbarous
,
worthless
,
and
unlovely
thing
,
whose
very
service
was
despised
,
whose
very
sacrifice
was
condemned
.
“
I
would
live
as
a
leper
all
the
days
of
my
life
,
if
,
first
,
I
might
be
fair
in
his
sight
one
hour
!
”
she
thought
;
and
she
was
unconscious
of
horror
or
of
impiety
in
the
ghastly
desire
,
because
she
ahd
but
one
religion
,
this
—
her
love
.
She
crossed
the
little
bridge
,
and
sat
down
to
rest
on
the
root
of
an
old
oak
on
the
edge
of
the
fields
of
poppies
.
The
evening
had
fallen
quite
.
There
was
a
bright
moon
on
the
edge
of
the
plain
.
The
cresset
lights
of
the
cathedral
glowed
through
the
dusk
.
All
was
purple
and
grey
and
still
.
There
were
the
scents
of
heavy
earths
and
wild
thymes
and
the
breath
of
grazing
herds
.
The
little
hamlets
were
but
patches
of
darker
shade
on
the
soft
brown
shadows
of
the
night
.
White
sea‐mists
,
curling
and
rising
chased
each
other
over
the
dim
world
.
She
sat
motionless
,
leaning
her
head
upon
her
hand
.
She
could
not
weep
,
as
other
creatures
could
.
The
hours
drew
on
.
She
had
no
home
to
go
to
;
but
it
was
not
for
this
that
she
sorrowed
.
Afar
off
,
a
step
trod
down
the
grasses
.
A
hawk
rustled
through
the
gloom
.
A
rabbit
fled
across
the
path
.
The
boughs
were
put
aside
by
a
human
hand
;
Arslàn
came
out
from
the
darkness
of
the
woods
before
her
.
With
a
sharp
cry
she
sprang
to
her
feet
and
fled
,
on
one
passionate
reasonless
instinct
to
hide
herself
for
ever
and
for
ever
from
the
only
eyes
she
loved
.
Before
her
was
the
maze
of
the
poppy‐fields
.
In
the
moonlight
their
blossom
,
so
gorgeous
at
sunset
or
at
noon
,
lost
all
their
scarlet
gaud
and
purple
pomp
,
and
drooped
like
discrowned
kings
stripped
bare
in
the
midnight
of
calamity
.
Their
colourless
flowers
writhed
and
twined
about
her
ankles
.
Her
brown
limbs
glistened
in
the
gleam
from
the
skies
.
She
tightened
her
red
girdle
round
her
loins
and
ran
,
as
a
doe
runs
to
reach
the
sanctuary
.
Long
withes
of
trailing
grasses
,
weeds
that
grew
amongst
the
grasses
,
caught
her
fleet
feet
and
stopped
her
.
The
earth
was
wet
with
dew
.
A
tangle
of
boughs
and
brambles
filled
the
path
.
For
once
,
her
sure
steps
failed
her
.
She
faltered
and
fell
.
Ere
he
could
touch
her
,
she
rose
again
.
The
scent
of
the
wet
leaves
was
in
her
hair
.
The
rain‐drops
glistened
on
her
feet
.
The
light
of
the
stars
seemed
in
her
burning
eyes
.
Around
her
were
the
gleam
of
the
night
,
the
scent
of
the
flowers
,
the
smell
of
the
woods
.
On
her
face
the
moon
shone
.
She
was
like
a
creature
born
from
the
freshness
of
dews
,
from
the
odour
of
foilage
,
from
the
hues
of
the
clouds
,
from
the
foam
of
the
brooks
,
from
all
things
of
the
woods
and
the
water
.
In
that
moment
she
was
beautiful
with
the
beauty
of
women
.
“
If
only
she
could
content
me
!
”
he
thought
.
If
only
he
cared
for
the
song
of
the
reed
by
the
river
!
But
he
cared
nothing
at
all
for
anything
that
lived
;
and
a
pursuit
that
was
passionless
of
a
thing
that
was
helpless
,
seemed
to
him
base
;
and
his
feet
were
set
on
a
stony
and
narrow
road
where
he
would
not
encumber
his
strength
with
a
thing
of
her
sex
,
lest
the
burden
should
draw
him
backward
one
rood
on
his
way
.
He
had
never
loved
her
;
he
never
would
love
her
;
his
eyes
were
awake
to
her
beauty
,
indeed
,
and
his
reason
owned
it
beyond
all
usual
gifts
of
her
sex
.
But
his
senses
remained
cold
to
it
:
he
had
used
it
in
the
service
of
his
art
,
and
therein
had
scrutinised
,
and
pourtrayed
,
and
debased
it
,
until
it
had
lost
to
him
all
that
fanciful
sanctity
,
all
that
half‐mysterious
charm
,
which
arouse
the
passion
of
love
in
a
man
to
a
woman
.
So
he
let
her
be
,
and
stood
by
her
in
the
dusk
of
the
night
with
no
light
in
his
own
eyes
.
“
Do
not
fly
from
me
,
”
he
said
to
her
.
“
I
have
sought
you
,
to
ask
your
forgiveness
,
and
—
”
She
stood
silent
,
her
head
bent
;
her
hands
were
crossed
upon
her
chest
in
the
posture
habitual
to
her
under
any
pain
;
her
face
was
shrouded
in
the
shadow
;
her
little
bundles
of
clothes
had
dropped
on
the
grasses
,
and
was
hidden
by
them
.
Of
Flamma’s
death
and
of
her
homelessness
he
had
heard
nothing
.
“
I
was
harsh
to
you
,
”
he
said
,
gently
.
“
I
spoke
,
in
the
bitterness
of
my
heart
,
unworthily
.
I
was
stung
with
a
great
shame
;
—
I
forgot
that
you
could
not
know
.
Can
you
forgive
?
”
“
The
madness
was
mine
,
”
she
muttered
.
“
It
was
I
,
who
forgot
—
”
Her
voice
was
very
faint
,
and
left
her
lips
with
effort
;
she
did
not
look
up
;
she
stood
bloodless
,
breathless
,
swaying
to
and
fro
,
as
a
young
tree
which
has
been
cut
through
near
the
root
sways
ere
it
falls
.
She
knew
well
what
his
words
would
say
.
“
You
are
generous
,
and
you
shame
me
—
indeed
—
thus
,
”
he
said
with
a
certain
softness
as
of
unwilling
pain
in
his
voice
which
shook
its
coldness
and
serenity
.
This
greatness
in
her
,
this
wondrous
faithfulness
to
himself
,
this
silence
,
which
bore
all
wounds
from
his
hand
,
and
was
never
broken
to
utter
one
reproach
against
him
,
these
moved
him
.
He
could
not
choose
but
see
that
this
nature
,
which
he
bruised
and
forsook
,
was
noble
beyond
any
common
nobility
of
any
human
thing
.
“
I
have
deserved
little
at
your
hands
,
and
you
have
given
me
much
,
”
he
said
slowly
.
“
I
feel
base
and
unworthy
;
for
—
I
have
sought
you
to
bid
you
farewell
.
”
She
had
awaited
her
death‐blow
;
she
received
its
stroke
without
a
sound
.
She
did
not
move
,
nor
cry
out
,
nor
make
any
sign
of
pain
,
but
standing
there
her
form
curled
within
itself
,
as
a
withered
fern
curls
,
and
all
her
beauty
changed
like
a
fresh
flower
that
is
held
in
a
flame
.
She
did
not
look
at
him
;
but
waited
,
with
her
head
bent
,
and
her
hands
crossed
on
her
breast
as
a
criminal
waits
for
his
doom
.
His
nerve
nearly
failed
him
;
his
heart
nearly
yielded
.
He
had
no
love
for
her
;
she
was
nothing
to
him
.
No
more
than
any
one
of
the
dark
,
nude
,
savage
women
who
had
sat
to
this
art
on
the
broken
steps
of
ruined
Temples
of
the
Sun
;
or
the
antelope‐eyed
creature
of
desert
and
plain
who
had
come
before
him
in
the
light
of
the
East
,
and
had
passed
as
the
shadows
passed
,
and
,
like
them
,
were
forgotten
.
She
was
nothing
to
him
.
And
yet
he
could
not
choose
but
think
—
all
this
mighty
love
,
all
this
majestic
strength
,
all
this
superb
and
dreamy
loveliness
,
would
die
out
here
,
as
the
evening
colours
had
died
out
of
the
skies
in
the
west
,
none
pausing
even
to
note
that
they
were
dead
.
He
knew
that
he
had
but
to
say
to
her
,
“
Come
!
”
and
she
would
go
beside
him
,
whether
to
shame
or
ignominy
,
or
famine
or
death
,
triumphant
and
rejoicing
as
the
martyrs
of
old
went
to
the
flames
,
which
were
to
them
the
gates
of
paradise
.
He
knew
that
there
would
not
be
a
blow
his
hand
could
deal
which
could
make
her
deem
him
cruel
;
he
knew
that
there
would
be
no
crime
which
he
could
bid
her
commit
for
him
which
would
not
seem
to
her
a
virtue
;
he
knew
that
for
one
hour
of
his
love
she
would
slay
herself
by
any
death
he
told
her
;
he
knew
that
the
deepest
wretchedness
lived
through
by
his
side
would
be
sweeter
and
more
glorious
than
any
kingdom
of
the
world
or
heaven
.
And
he
knew
well
that
to
no
man
is
it
given
to
be
loved
twice
with
such
love
as
this
.
Yet
,
—
he
loved
not
her
;
and
he
was
,
therefore
,
strong
,
and
he
drove
the
death‐stroke
home
,
with
pity
,
with
compassion
,
with
gentleness
,
yet
surely
home
—
to
the
heart
.
“
A
stranger
came
to
me
an
hour
or
more
ago
,
”
he
said
to
her
;
and
it
seemed
even
to
him
as
though
he
slew
a
life
godlier
and
purer
and
stronger
than
his
own
,
—
“
an
old
man
,
who
gave
no
name
.
I
have
seen
his
face
—
far
away
,
long
ago
—
I
am
not
sure
.
The
memory
is
too
vague
.
He
seemed
a
man
of
knowledge
,
and
a
man
critical
and
keen
.
That
study
of
you
—
the
one
amongst
the
poppies
,
—
you
remember
—
took
his
eyes
and
pleased
him
.
He
bore
it
away
with
him
,
and
left
in
its
stead
a
roll
of
paper
money
—
money
enough
to
take
me
back
amongst
men
—
to
set
me
free
for
a
little
space
.
Oh
,
child
!
you
have
seen
—
this
hell
on
earth
kills
me
.
It
is
a
death
in
life
.
It
has
made
me
brutal
to
you
sometimes
;
sometimes
I
must
hurt
something
,
or
go
mad
.
”
She
was
silent
;
her
attitude
had
not
changed
,
but
all
her
loveliness
was
like
one
of
the
poppies
that
his
foot
had
trodden
on
,
discoloured
,
broken
,
ruined
.
She
stood
as
though
changed
to
a
statue
of
bronze
.
He
looked
on
her
,
and
knew
that
no
creature
had
ever
loved
him
as
this
creature
had
loved
.
But
of
love
he
wanted
nothing
,
—
it
was
weariness
to
him
;
all
he
desired
was
power
amongst
men
.
“
I
have
been
cruel
to
you
,
”
he
said
,
suddenly
.
“
I
have
stung
and
wounded
you
often
.
I
have
dealt
with
your
beauty
as
with
this
flower
under
my
foot
.
I
have
had
no
pity
for
you
.
Can
you
forgive
me
ere
I
go
?
”
“
You
have
no
sins
to
me
,
”
she
made
answer
to
him
.
She
did
not
stir
;
nor
did
the
deadly
calm
on
her
face
change
;
but
her
voice
had
a
harsh
metallic
sound
,
like
the
jar
of
a
bell
that
is
broken
.
He
was
silent
also
.
The
coldness
and
the
arrogance
of
his
heart
were
pained
and
humbled
by
her
pardon
of
them
.
He
knew
that
he
had
been
pitiless
to
her
—
with
a
pitilessness
less
excusable
than
that
which
is
born
of
the
fierceness
of
passion
and
the
idolatrous
desires
of
the
senses
.
Man
would
have
held
him
blameless
here
,
because
he
had
forborn
to
pluck
for
his
own
this
red
and
gold
reed
in
the
swamp
;
but
he
himself
knew
well
that
,
nevertheless
,
he
had
trodden
its
life
out
,
and
so
bruised
it
,
as
he
went
,
that
never
would
any
wind
of
heaven
breathe
music
through
its
shattered
grace
again
.
“
When
do
you
go
?
”
she
asked
.
Her
voice
had
still
the
same
harsh
broken
sound
in
it
.
She
did
not
lift
the
lids
of
her
eyes
;
her
arms
were
crossed
upon
her
breast
;
—
all
the
ruins
of
the
trampled
poppy‐blossom
were
about
her
,
blood‐red
as
a
field
where
men
have
fought
and
died
.
He
answered
her
,
“
At
dawn
.
”
“
And
where
?
”
“
To
Paris
.
I
will
find
fame
—
or
a
grave
.
”
A
long
silence
fell
between
them
.
The
church
chimes
,
far
away
in
the
darkness
,
tolled
the
ninth
hour
.
She
stood
passive
,
colourless
as
the
poppies
were
,
bloodless
from
the
thick
,
dull
beating
of
her
heart
.
The
purple
shadow
and
the
white
stars
swam
around
her
.
Her
heart
was
broken
;
but
she
gave
no
sign
.
It
was
her
nature
to
suffer
to
the
last
in
silence
.
He
looked
at
her
,
and
his
own
heart
softened
;
almost
he
repented
him
.
He
stretched
his
arms
to
her
,
and
drew
her
into
them
,
and
kissed
the
dew‐laden
weight
of
her
hair
,
and
the
curling
lithe
from
,
whence
all
warmth
had
died
,
and
the
passionate
loveliness
,
which
was
cast
to
him
,
to
be
folded
in
his
bosom
or
thrust
away
by
his
foot
—
as
he
chose
.
“
Oh
,
child
,
forgive
me
,
and
forget
me
,
”
he
murmured
.
“
I
have
been
base
to
you
,
—
brutal
,
and
bitter
,
and
cold
oftentimes
;
—
yet
I
would
have
loved
you
,
if
I
could
.
Love
would
have
been
youth
,
folly
,
oblivion
;
all
the
nearest
likeness
that
men
get
of
happiness
on
earth
.
But
love
is
dead
in
me
,
I
think
,
otherwise
—
”
She
burned
like
fire
,
and
grew
cold
as
ice
in
his
embrace
.
Her
brain
reeled
;
her
sight
was
blind
.
She
trembled
as
she
had
never
done
under
the
sharpest
throes
of
Flamma’s
scourge
.
Suddenly
she
cast
her
arms
about
his
throat
,
and
clung
to
him
,
and
kissed
him
in
answer
with
that
strange
,
mute
,
terrible
passion
with
which
the
lips
of
the
dying
kiss
the
warm
and
living
face
that
bends
above
them
,
on
which
they
know
they
never
again
will
rest
.
Then
she
broke
from
him
,
and
sprang
into
the
maze
of
the
moonlit
fields
,
and
fled
from
him
like
a
stag
that
bears
its
death‐shot
in
it
,
and
knows
it
,
and
seeks
to
hide
itself
and
die
unseen
.
He
pursued
her
,
urged
by
a
desire
that
was
cruel
,
and
a
sorrow
that
was
tender
.
He
had
no
love
for
her
;
and
yet
—
now
that
he
had
thrown
her
from
him
for
ever
—
he
would
fain
have
felt
those
hot
mute
lips
tremble
again
in
their
terrible
eloquence
upon
his
own
.
But
he
sought
her
in
vain
.
The
shadows
of
the
night
hid
her
from
him
.
He
went
back
to
his
home
alone
.
“
It
is
best
so
,
”
he
said
to
himself
.
For
the
life
that
lay
before
him
he
needed
all
his
strength
,
all
his
coldness
,
all
his
cruelty
.
And
she
was
only
a
frail
female
thing
—
a
reed
of
the
river
,
songless
,
and
blown
by
the
wind
as
the
rest
were
.
He
returned
to
his
solitude
,
and
lit
his
lamp
,
and
looked
on
the
creations
which
alone
he
loved
.
“
They
shall
live
,
—
or
I
will
die
,
”
he
said
in
his
own
heart
.
With
the
war
to
which
he
went
what
had
any
amorous
toy
to
do
?
That
night
Hermes
had
no
voice
for
him
.
Else
might
the
wise
god
had
said
,
“
Many
reeds
grow
together
by
the
river
,
and
men
tread
them
at
will
,
and
none
are
the
worse
.
But
in
one
reed
of
a
million
song
is
hidden
;
and
when
a
man
carelessly
breaks
that
reed
in
twain
,
he
may
miss
its
music
often
and
long
,
—
yea
,
all
the
years
of
his
life
.
”
But
Hermes
that
night
spake
not
.
And
he
brake
his
reed
,
and
cast
it
behind
him
.
CHAPTER
VII
.
WHEN
the
dawn
came
,
it
found
her
lying
face
downward
among
the
rushes
by
the
river
.
She
had
run
on
,
and
on
,
and
on
blindly
,
not
knowing
where
she
fled
,
with
the
strange
force
which
despair
lends
;
then
suddenly
had
dropped
,
as
a
young
bull
drops
in
the
circus
with
the
steel
sheathed
in
its
brain
.
There
she
had
remained
insensible
,
the
blood
flowing
a
little
from
her
mouth
.
It
was
quite
lonely
by
the
waterside
.
A
crane
among
the
sedges
,
an
owl
on
the
wind
,
a
water‐lizard
under
the
stones
,
such
were
the
only
moving
things
.
It
was
in
a
solitary
bend
of
the
stream
;
its
banks
were
green
and
quiet
;
there
were
no
dwellings
near
;
and
there
was
no
light
anywhere
,
except
the
dull
glow
of
the
lamp
above
the
Calvary
.
No
one
found
her
.
A
young
fox
came
and
smelt
at
her
,
and
stole
frightened
away
.
That
was
all
.
A
sharp
wind
rising
with
the
reddening
of
the
east
blew
on
her
,
and
recalled
her
to
consciousness
after
many
hours
.
When
her
eyes
at
length
opened
,
with
a
blank
stare
upon
the
greyness
of
the
shadows
,
she
lifted
herself
a
little
and
sat
still
,
and
wondered
what
had
chanced
to
her
.
The
first
rays
of
the
sun
rose
over
the
dim
blue
haze
of
the
horizon
.
She
looked
at
it
and
tried
to
remember
,
but
failed
.
Her
mind
was
sick
and
dull
.
A
little
beetle
,
green
and
bronze
,
climbed
in
and
out
amongst
the
sand
of
the
river‐shore
;
her
eyes
vacantly
followed
the
insect’s
aimless
circles
.
She
tried
to
think
,
and
could
not
;
her
thoughts
went
feebly
and
madly
round
and
round
,
round
and
round
,
as
the
beetle
went
in
his
maze
of
sand
.
It
was
all
so
grey
,
so
still
,
so
chill
,
she
was
afraid
of
it
.
Her
limbs
were
stiffened
by
the
exposure
and
dews
of
the
night
.
She
shivered
and
was
cold
.
The
sun
rose
—
a
globe
of
flame
above
the
edge
of
the
world
.
Memory
flashed
on
her
with
its
light
.
She
rose
a
little
,
staggering
and
blind
,
and
weakened
by
the
loss
of
blood
;
she
crept
feebly
to
the
edge
of
the
stream
,
and
washed
the
stains
from
her
lips
,
and
let
her
face
rest
a
little
in
the
sweet
,
silent
,
flowing
water
.
Then
she
sat
still
amidst
the
long
rush‐like
grass
,
and
thought
,
and
thought
,
and
wondered
why
life
was
so
tough
and
merciless
a
thing
,
that
it
would
ache
on
,
and
burn
on
,
and
keep
misery
awake
to
know
itself
even
when
its
death‐blow
had
been
dealt
,
and
the
steel
was
in
its
side
.
She
was
still
only
half
sensible
of
her
wretchedness
.
She
was
numbed
by
weakness
,
and
her
brain
seemed
deadened
by
a
hot
pain
,
that
shot
through
it
as
with
tongues
of
flame
.
The
little
beetle
at
her
feet
was
busied
in
a
yellower
soil
than
sand
.
He
moved
round
and
round
in
a
little
dazzling
heap
of
coins
,
and
trembling
paper
thin
as
gauze
.
She
saw
it
without
seeing
for
awhile
;
then
,
all
at
once
,
a
knowledge
flashed
on
her
.
She
saw
that
the
money
had
fallen
from
her
tunic
.
She
guessed
the
truth
—
that
in
his
last
embrace
he
had
slid
into
her
bosom
half
that
sum
whereof
he
had
spoken
as
the
ransom
which
had
set
him
free
.
Her
bloodless
face
grew
scarlet
with
an
immeasurable
shame
.
She
would
have
suffered
far
less
if
he
had
killed
her
.
He
who
denied
her
love
to
give
her
gold
!
Better
that
,
when
he
had
kissed
her
,
he
had
covered
her
eyes
softly
with
one
hand
,
and
with
the
other
driven
his
knife
straight
through
the
white
warmth
of
her
breast
.
The
sight
of
the
gold
stung
her
like
a
snake
.
Gold
!
—
such
wage
as
men
flung
to
the
painted
harlots
gibing
at
the
corners
of
the
streets
!
The
horror
of
the
humiliation
filled
her
with
loathing
of
herself
.
Unless
she
had
become
shameful
in
his
sight
,
she
thought
,
he
could
not
have
cast
this
shame
upon
her
.
She
gathered
herself
slowly
up
,
and
stood
and
looked
with
blind
aching
eyes
at
the
splendour
of
the
sunrise
.
Her
heart
was
breaking
.
Her
one
brief
dream
of
gladness
was
severed
sharply
,
as
with
a
sword
,
and
killed
for
ever
.
She
did
not
reason
—
all
thought
was
stunned
with
her
;
but
as
a
woman
,
who
loves
looking
on
the
face
she
loves
,
will
see
sure
death
written
there
long
ere
any
other
can
detect
it
,
so
she
knew
,
by
the
fatal
and
unerring
instinct
of
passion
,
that
he
was
gone
from
her
as
utterly
and
as
eternally
as
though
his
grave
had
closed
on
him
.
She
did
not
even
in
her
own
heart
reproach
him
.
Her
love
for
him
was
too
perfect
to
make
rebuke
against
him
possible
to
her
.
Had
he
not
a
right
to
go
as
he
would
,
to
do
as
he
chose
,
to
take
her
or
leave
her
,
as
best
might
seem
to
him
?
Only
he
had
no
right
to
shame
her
with
what
he
had
deemed
shame
to
himself
;
no
right
to
insult
what
he
had
slain
.
She
gathered
herself
slowly
up
,
and
took
his
money
in
her
hand
,
and
went
along
the
river
bank
.
Whither
?
She
had
no
knowledge
at
first
;
but
,
as
she
moved
against
the
white
light
and
the
cool
currents
of
the
morning
air
,
her
brain
cleared
a
little
.
The
purpose
which
had
risen
in
her
slowly
matured
and
strengthened
;
without
its
sustenance
she
would
have
sunk
down
and
perished
,
like
a
flower
cut
at
the
root
.
Of
all
the
world
that
lay
beyond
the
pale
of
those
golden
and
russet
orchards
and
scarlet
lakes
of
blowing
poppies
she
had
no
more
knowledge
than
the
lizard
at
her
feet
.
Cities
,
he
had
often
said
,
were
as
fiery
furnaces
that
consumed
all
youth
and
innocence
which
touched
them
:
for
such
as
she
to
go
to
them
was
,
he
had
often
said
,
to
cast
a
luscious
and
golden
peach
of
the
summer
into
the
core
of
a
wasp’s
nest
.
Nevertheless
,
her
mind
was
resolute
to
follow
him
,
—
to
follow
him
unknown
by
him
;
so
that
,
if
his
footsteps
turned
to
brighter
paths
,
her
shadow
might
never
fall
across
his
ways
;
but
so
that
,
if
need
were
,
if
failure
still
pursued
him
,
and
by
failure
came
misery
and
death
,
she
would
be
there
beside
him
,
to
share
those
fatal
gifts
which
none
would
dispute
with
her
or
grudge
.
To
follow
him
was
to
her
an
instinct
as
natural
and
as
irresistible
as
it
is
to
the
dog
to
track
his
master’s
wanderings
.
She
would
have
starved
ere
she
would
have
told
him
that
she
hungered
.
She
would
have
perished
by
the
roadside
ere
ever
she
would
have
cried
to
him
that
she
was
homeless
.
She
would
have
been
torn
asunder
for
a
meal
by
wolves
ere
she
would
have
bought
safety
or
succour
by
one
coin
of
that
gold
he
had
slid
in
her
bosom
,
like
the
wages
of
a
thing
that
was
vile
.
But
to
follow
him
she
never
hesitated
:
unless
this
had
been
possible
to
her
,
she
would
have
refused
to
live
another
hour
.
The
love
in
her
,
at
once
savage
and
sublime
,
at
once
strong
as
the
lion’s
rage
and
humble
as
the
camel’s
endurance
,
made
her
take
patiently
all
wrongs
at
his
hands
,
but
made
her
powerless
to
imagine
a
life
in
which
he
was
not
.
She
went
slowly
now
through
the
country
,
in
the
hush
of
the
waking
day
.
He
had
said
that
he
would
leave
at
dawn
.
In
her
unconscious
agony
of
the
night
gone
by
,
she
had
run
far
and
fast
ere
she
had
fallen
;
and
now
,
upon
her
waking
,
she
had
found
herself
some
league
from
the
old
mill‐woods
,
and
further
yet
from
the
tower
on
the
river
where
he
dwelt
.
She
was
weak
,
and
the
way
seemed
very
long
to
her
;
ever
and
again
,
too
,
she
started
aside
and
hid
herself
,
thinking
each
step
were
his
.
She
wanted
to
give
him
back
his
gold
,
yet
she
felt
as
though
one
look
of
his
eyes
would
kill
her
.
It
was
long
,
and
the
sun
was
high
,
ere
she
had
dragged
her
stiff
and
feeble
limbs
through
the
long
grasses
of
the
shore
and
reached
the
ruined
granary
.
Crouching
down
,
and
gazing
through
the
spaces
in
the
stones
from
which
so
often
she
had
watched
him
,
she
saw
at
once
that
the
place
was
desolate
.
The
great
Barabbas
,
and
the
painted
panels
and
canvases
,
and
all
the
pigments
and
tools
and
articles
of
an
artist’s
store
,
were
gone
:
but
the
figures
on
the
walls
were
perforce
left
there
to
perish
.
The
early
light
fell
full
upon
them
,
sad
and
calm
and
pale
,
living
their
life
upon
the
stone
.
She
entered
and
looked
at
them
.
She
loved
them
greatly
;
it
pierced
her
heart
to
leave
them
there
—
alone
.
The
bound
Helios
working
at
the
mill
,
with
white
Hermes
watching
,
mute
and
content
,
—
Persephone
crouching
in
the
awful
shadow
of
the
dread
winged
King
,
—
the
Greek
youths
,
with
doves
in
their
breasts
and
golden
apples
in
their
hands
,
—
the
women
dancing
upon
Cithæron
,
in
the
moonlight
,
—
the
young
gladiator
wrestling
with
the
Libyan
lion
,
—
all
the
familiar
shapes
and
stories
that
made
the
grey
walls
teem
with
the
old
sweet
life
of
the
heroic
times
,
were
there
—
left
to
the
rat
and
the
spider
,
the
dust
and
the
damp
,
the
slow
,
sad
death
of
a
decay
which
no
heart
would
sorrow
for
,
nor
any
hand
arrest
.
The
days
would
come
and
go
,
the
suns
would
rise
and
set
,
the
nights
would
fall
,
and
the
waters
flow
,
and
the
great
stars
throb
above
in
the
skies
,
and
they
would
be
there
—
alone
.
To
her
they
were
living
things
,
beautiful
and
divine
;
they
were
bound
up
with
all
the
hours
of
her
love
;
and
at
their
feet
she
had
known
the
one
brief
dream
of
ecstacy
that
had
sprung
up
for
her
,
great
and
golden
as
the
prophet’s
gourd
,
and
as
the
gourd
in
a
night
had
withered
.
She
held
them
in
a
passionate
tenderness
—
these
,
the
first
creatures
who
had
spoken
to
her
with
a
smile
,
and
had
brought
light
in
to
the
darkness
of
her
life
.
She
flung
herself
on
the
ground
and
kissed
its
dust
,
and
prayed
for
them
in
an
agony
of
prayer
—
prayed
for
them
that
the
hour
might
come
,
and
come
quickly
,
when
men
would
see
the
greatness
of
their
maker
,
and
would
remember
them
,
and
seek
them
,
and
bear
them
forth
in
honour
and
in
worship
to
the
nations
.
She
prayed
in
an
agony
;
prayed
blindly
,
and
to
whom
she
knew
not
;
prayed
,
in
the
sightless
instinct
of
the
human
heart
,
towards
some
greater
strength
which
could
bestow
at
once
retribution
and
consolation
.
Nor
was
it
so
much
for
him
as
for
them
that
she
thus
prayed
:
in
loving
them
she
had
reached
the
pure
and
impersonal
passion
of
the
artist
.
To
have
them
live
,
she
would
have
given
her
own
life
.
Then
the
bonds
of
her
torment
seemed
to
be
severed
;
and
,
for
the
first
time
,
she
fell
into
a
passion
of
tears
,
and
stretched
there
on
the
floor
of
the
forsaken
chamber
,
wept
as
women
weep
upon
a
grave
.
When
she
arose
,
at
length
,
she
met
the
eyes
of
Hypnos
and
Oneiros
and
Thanatos
—
the
gentle
gods
who
give
forgetfulness
to
men
.
They
were
her
dear
gods
,
her
best
beloved
and
most
compassionate
;
yet
their
looks
struck
coldly
to
her
heart
.
Sleep
,
Dreams
,
and
Death
,
—
were
these
the
only
gifts
with
which
the
gods
,
being
merciful
,
could
answer
prayer
?
BOOK
VI
.
“
Dust
to
dust
.
”
CHAPTER
I
.
AT
the
little
quay
in
the
town
many
boats
were
lading
and
unlading
,
and
many
setting
their
sails
to
go
southward
with
their
loads
of
eggs
or
of
birds
,
of
flowers
,
of
fruit
or
of
herbage
;
all
smelling
of
summer
rain
and
the
odours
of
freshly
ploughed
earths
turned
up
with
the
nest
of
the
lark
and
the
root
of
the
cowslip
laid
bare
in
them
.
She
lost
herself
in
its
little
busy
crowd
,
and
learned
what
she
needed
without
any
asking
,
in
turn
,
question
of
her
.
Arslàn
had
sailed
at
sunrise
.
There
was
a
little
boat
,
with
an
old
man
in
it
,
loaded
with
Russian
violets
from
a
flower‐farm
.
The
old
man
was
angered
and
in
trouble
:
the
lad
who
steered
for
him
had
failed
him
,
and
the
young
men
and
boys
on
the
canals
were
all
too
busy
to
be
willing
too
the
voyage
for
the
wretched
pittance
he
offered
.
She
heard
,
and
leaned
towards
him
.
“
Do
you
go
the
way
to
Paris
?
”
The
old
man
nodded
.
“
I
will
steer
for
you
,
then
,
”
she
said
to
him
;
and
leaped
down
amongst
his
fragrant
freight
.
He
was
a
stranger
to
her
,
and
let
her
be
.
She
did
for
him
as
well
as
another
,
since
she
said
that
she
knew
those
waters
well
.
He
was
in
haste
,
and
,
without
more
words
,
he
loosened
his
sail
,
and
cut
his
moor‐rope
,
and
set
his
little
vessel
adrift
down
the
water‐ways
of
the
town
,
the
violets
filling
the
air
with
their
odours
and
blue
as
the
eyes
of
a
child
that
wakes
smiling
.
All
the
old
familiar
streets
,
all
the
dusky
gateways
and
dim
passages
,
all
the
ropes
on
which
the
lanterns
and
the
linen
hung
,
all
the
wide
carved
stairways
water‐washed
,
all
the
dim
windows
that
the
women
filled
with
pots
of
ivy
and
the
song
of
birds
,
—
she
was
drifting
from
them
with
every
pulse
of
the
tide
,
never
again
to
return
;
but
she
looked
at
them
without
seeing
them
,
indifferent
,
and
having
no
memory
of
them
;
her
brain
,
and
her
heart
,
and
her
soul
were
with
the
boat
that
she
followed
.
It
was
the
day
of
the
weekly
market
.
The
broad
flat‐bottomed
boats
were
coming
in
at
sunrise
,
in
each
some
cargo
of
green
food
or
of
farm
produce
:
a
strong
girl
rowing
with
bare
arms
,
and
the
sun
catching
the
white
glint
of
her
head‐gear
.
Boys
with
coils
of
spotted
birds’
eggs
,
children
with
lapsful
of
wood‐gathered
primroses
,
old
women
nursing
a
wicker
cage
of
cackling
hens
or
hissing
geese
,
mules
and
asses
,
shaking
their
bells
and
worsted
tassels
,
bearing
their
riders
high
on
sheepskin
saddles
,
—
these
all
went
by
her
on
the
river
,
or
on
the
towing‐path
,
or
on
the
broad
high
road
that
ran
for
a
space
by
the
water’s
edge
.
All
of
these
knew
her
well
;
all
of
these
sometime
of
another
had
jeered
her
,
jostled
her
,
flouted
her
,
or
fled
from
her
.
But
no
one
stopped
her
.
No
one
cared
enough
for
her
to
care
even
to
wonder
where
she
went
.
She
glided
out
of
the
town
,
and
along
the
banks
she
knew
so
well
,
and
passed
the
wood
and
the
orchards
of
Yprès
.
But
what
at
another
time
would
have
had
pain
for
her
,
and
held
her
with
the
bonds
of
a
sad
familiarity
,
now
scarcely
moved
her
.
One
great
grief
and
one
great
passion
had
drowned
all
these
lesser
woes
,
and
scorched
to
ashes
all
slighter
memories
.
All
day
long
they
sailed
.
At
noon
the
old
man
gave
her
a
little
fruit
and
a
crust
as
part
of
her
wage
;
she
tried
to
eat
them
,
knowing
she
would
want
all
her
strength
.
They
left
the
course
of
the
stream
that
she
knew
,
and
sailed
further
than
she
had
ever
sailed
;
passed
towns
whose
bells
were
ringing
,
and
noble
bridges
gleaming
in
the
sun
,
and
water‐mills
black
and
gruesome
,
and
bright
orchards
and
vineyards
heavy
with
the
promise
of
fruit
.
She
knew
none
of
them
.
There
were
only
the
water
flowing
under
the
keel
,
and
the
blue
sky
above
,
with
the
rooks
circling
in
it
,
which
had
the
look
of
friends
to
her
.
The
twilight
fell
;
still
the
wind
served
,
and
still
they
held
on
;
the
mists
came
,
white
and
thick
,
and
stars
rose
,
and
the
voices
from
the
shores
sounded
strangely
,
with
here
and
there
a
note
of
music
or
the
deep
roll
of
a
drum
.
So
she
drifted
out
of
the
old
life
into
an
unknown
world
.
But
she
never
once
looked
back
.
Why
should
she
?
—
He
had
gone
before
.
When
it
was
quite
night
,
they
drew
near
to
a
busy
town
,
whose
lights
glittered
by
hundreds
and
thousands
on
the
bank
.
There
were
many
barges
and
small
boats
at
anchor
in
its
wharves
,
hanging
out
lanterns
at
their
mast‐heads
.
The
old
man
bade
her
steer
his
boat
amongst
them
,
and
with
a
cord
he
made
it
fast
.
“
This
is
Paris
?
”
she
asked
,
breathlessly
.
The
old
man
laughed
.
“
Paris
is
days’
sail
away
.
”
“
I
asked
you
if
you
went
to
Paris
?
”
The
old
man
laughed
again
.
“
I
said
I
came
the
Paris
way
.
So
I
have
done
.
Land
.
”
Her
face
set
with
an
anger
that
made
him
wince
,
dull
though
his
conscience
was
.
“
You
cheated
me
,
”
she
said
,
briefly
;
and
she
climbed
the
boat’s
side
,
and
shaking
the
violets
off
her
,
set
her
foot
upon
the
pier
,
not
stooping
to
waster
more
words
.
But
a
great
terror
fell
on
her
.
She
had
thought
that
the
boat
would
bring
her
straight
to
Paris
;
and
,
once
in
Paris
,
she
had
thought
that
it
would
be
as
easy
to
trace
his
steps
as
it
had
been
in
the
little
town
that
she
had
left
.
She
had
had
no
sense
of
distance
—
no
knowledge
of
the
size
of
cities
;
the
width
,
and
noise
,
and
hurry
,
and
confusion
of
this
one
waterside
town
made
her
helpless
and
stupid
.
She
stood
like
a
young
lost
dog
upon
the
flags
of
the
landing‐place
,
not
knowing
whither
to
go
,
nor
what
to
do
.
The
old
man
,
busied
in
unlading
his
violets
into
the
wicker
kreels
of
the
women
waiting
for
them
,
took
no
notice
of
her
.
He
had
used
her
so
long
as
he
had
wanted
her
.
There
were
incessant
turmoil
,
outcry
,
and
uproar
round
the
landing‐stairs
,
where
large
cargoes
of
beetroot
,
cabbages
,
and
fish
were
being
put
on
shore
.
The
buyers
and
the
sellers
screamed
and
swore
;
the
tawny
light
of
oil‐lamps
flickered
over
their
furious
faces
;
the
people
jostled
her
,
pushed
her
,
cursed
her
,
for
being
in
the
way
.
She
shrank
back
in
bewilderment
and
disgust
,
and
walked
feebly
away
from
the
edge
of
the
river
,
trying
to
think
,
trying
to
get
back
her
old
health
and
her
old
force
.
The
people
of
the
streets
were
too
occupied
to
take
any
heed
of
her
.
Only
one
ragged
little
boy
danced
before
her
a
moment
,
shrieking
,
“
The
gipsy
!
the
gipsy
!
Good
little
fathers
,
look
to
your
pockets
!
”
But
she
was
too
used
to
the
language
of
abuse
to
be
moved
by
it
.
She
went
on
,
as
though
she
were
deaf
,
through
the
yelling
of
the
children
and
the
chattering
and
chaffering
of
the
trading
multitude
.
There
was
a
little
street
leading
off
the
quay
,
picturesque
and
ancient
,
with
parquetted
houses
and
quaint
painted
signs
;
at
the
corner
of
it
sat
an
old
woman
on
a
wooden
stool
,
with
a
huge
fan
of
linen
on
her
head
like
a
mushroom
.
She
was
selling
roasted
chestnuts
by
the
glare
of
a
little
horn
lantern
.
By
this
woman
she
paused
,
and
asked
the
way
to
Paris
.
“
Paris
!
This
is
a
long
way
from
Paris
.
”
“
How
far
—
to
walk
?
”
“
That
depends
.
My
boy
went
up
there
on
foot
last
summer
;
he
is
a
young
fool
,
blotting
and
messing
with
ink
and
paper
,
while
he
talks
of
being
a
great
man
,
and
sups
with
the
rats
in
the
sewers
!
He
,
I
think
,
was
a
week
walking
it
.
It
is
pleasant
enough
in
fair
weather
.
But
you
—
you
are
a
gipsy
.
Where
are
your
people
?
”
“
I
have
no
people
.
”
She
did
not
know
even
what
this
epithet
of
gipsy
,
which
they
so
often
cast
at
her
,
really
meant
.
She
remembered
the
old
life
of
the
Liébana
,
but
she
did
not
know
what
manner
of
life
it
had
been
;
and
since
Phratos
had
left
her
there
,
no
one
of
his
tribe
or
of
his
kind
had
been
seen
in
the
little
Norman
town
among
the
orchards
.
The
old
woman
grinned
,
trimming
her
lantern
.
“
If
you
are
too
bad
for
them
,
you
must
be
bad
indeed
!
You
will
do
very
well
for
Paris
,
no
doubt
.
”
And
she
began
to
count
her
chestnuts
,
lest
this
stranger
should
steal
any
of
them
.
Folle‐Farine
took
no
notice
of
the
words
.
“
Will
you
show
me
which
is
the
road
to
take
?
”
she
asked
.
Meanwhile
the
street
boy
had
brought
three
or
four
of
his
comrades
to
stare
at
her
;
and
they
were
dancing
round
her
with
grotesque
grimace
,
and
singing
,
“
Houpe
là
,
Houpe
là
!
Burn
her
for
a
witch
!
”
The
woman
directed
her
which
roads
to
go
as
well
as
she
could
for
the
falling
darkness
,
and
she
thanked
the
woman
and
went
.
The
street
children
ran
at
her
heels
like
little
curs
,
yelling
and
hissing
foul
language
;
but
she
ran
too
,
and
was
swifter
than
they
,
and
outstripped
them
,
the
hardy
training
of
her
limbs
standing
her
in
good
service
.
How
far
she
ran
,
or
what
streets
she
traversed
,
she
could
not
tell
;
the
chestnut‐seller
had
said
.
“
Leave
the
pole‐star
behind
you
,
”
and
the
star
was
shining
behind
her
always
,
and
she
ran
south
steadily
.
Great
buildings
,
lighted
casements
,
high
stone
walls
,
groups
of
people
,
troopers
drinking
,
girls
laughing
,
men
playing
dominoes
in
the
taverns
,
women
chattering
in
the
coffee‐houses
,
a
line
of
priests
going
to
a
death‐bed
with
the
bell
ringing
before
the
Host
,
a
line
of
soldiers
filing
through
great
doors
as
the
drums
beat
the
return
into
barracks
,
—
thousands
of
these
pictures
glowed
in
her
path
a
moment
,
with
the
next
to
fade
and
give
place
to
others
.
But
she
looked
neither
to
the
right
or
left
,
and
held
on
straightly
for
the
south
.
Once
or
twice
a
man
halloed
after
her
,
or
a
soldier
tried
to
stop
her
.
Once
,
going
through
the
gateway
in
the
southern
wall
,
a
sentinel
challenged
her
,
and
levelled
his
bayonet
only
a
second
too
late
.
But
she
eluded
them
all
by
the
swiftness
of
her
apparition
,
and
she
got
out
safe
beyond
the
barriers
of
the
town
,
and
on
to
the
road
that
led
to
the
country
,
—
a
road
quiet
and
white
in
the
moonlight
,
and
bordered
on
either
side
with
the
tall
poplars
and
the
dim
,
bare
,
reapen
fields
which
looked
to
her
like
dear
familiar
friends
.
It
was
lonely
,
and
she
sat
down
on
a
stone
by
the
wayside
and
rested
.
She
had
no
hesitation
in
what
she
was
doing
.
He
had
gone
south
,
and
she
would
go
likewise
;
that
she
might
fail
to
find
him
there
,
never
occurred
to
her
.
Of
what
a
city
was
she
had
not
yet
any
conception
;
her
sole
measurement
of
one
was
the
little
towns
whither
she
had
driven
the
mules
to
sell
the
fruits
and
the
fowls
for
Flamma
.
To
have
been
cheated
of
Paris
,
and
to
find
herself
thus
far
distant
from
it
appalled
her
,
and
made
her
heart
sink
.
But
it
had
no
power
to
make
her
hesitate
in
the
course
she
took
.
She
had
no
fear
and
no
doubt
:
the
worst
thing
that
could
have
come
to
her
had
come
already
;
the
silence
and
the
strength
of
absolute
despair
were
on
her
.
Besides
,
a
certain
thrill
of
liberty
was
on
her
.
For
the
first
time
in
all
her
life
she
was
absolutely
free
,
with
the
freedom
of
the
will
and
of
the
body
both
.
She
was
no
longer
captive
to
one
place
,
bondslave
to
one
tyranny
;
she
was
no
longer
driven
with
curses
and
commands
,
and
yoked
and
harnessed
every
moment
of
her
days
.
To
her
,
with
the
blood
of
a
tameless
race
in
her
,
there
was
a
certain
force
and
elasticity
in
this
deliverance
from
bondage
,
that
lifted
some
measure
of
her
great
woe
off
her
.
She
could
not
be
absolutely
wretched
so
long
as
the
open
sky
was
above
her
,
and
the
smell
of
the
fields
about
her
,
and
on
her
face
the
breath
of
the
blowing
winds
.
She
had
that
love
which
is
as
the
bezoar
stone
of
fable
—
an
amulet
that
makes
all
wounds
unfelt
,
and
death
a
thing
to
smile
at
in
derision
.
Besides
,
there
was
in
her
veins
a
certain
thrill
of
the
sweetness
of
liberty
.
She
was
no
longer
captive
to
one
place
,
or
bound
in
the
old
bonds
of
servitude
.
She
was
free
—
with
the
freedom
of
the
will
and
of
the
body
.
Without
some
strong
impulsion
from
without
,
she
might
never
have
cut
herself
adrift
from
the
tyranny
that
had
held
her
down
from
childhood
;
and
even
the
one
happiness
she
had
known
had
been
but
little
more
than
the
exchange
of
one
manner
of
slavery
for
another
.
But
now
she
was
free
—
absolutely
free
;
and
in
the
calm
,
cool
night
—
in
the
dusk
and
the
solitude
,
with
the
smell
of
the
fields
around
her
,
and
above
her
the
stars
,
she
knew
it
and
was
glad
,
—
glad
even
amidst
the
woe
of
loneliness
and
the
agony
of
abandonment
.
She
sat
awhile
by
the
roadside
and
counted
his
gold
by
the
gleam
of
the
stars
,
and
put
it
away
securely
in
her
girdle
,
and
drank
from
the
brook
beside
her
,
and
tried
to
eat
a
little
of
the
bread
which
the
old
boat‐man
had
given
her
as
her
wages
,
with
three
pieces
of
copper
money
.
But
the
crust
choked
her
;
she
felt
hot
with
fever
,
and
her
throat
was
parched
and
full
of
pain
.
The
moon
was
full
upon
her
where
she
sat
;
the
red
and
white
of
her
dress
bore
a
strange
look
;
her
face
was
colourless
,
and
her
eyes
looked
but
the
larger
and
more
lustrous
for
the
black
shadows
beneath
them
,
and
the
weary
swollen
droop
of
their
lids
.
She
rested
there
,
and
pondered
on
the
next
step
she
had
best
take
.
A
woman
came
past
her
,
and
stopped
and
looked
.
The
moonlight
was
strong
upon
her
face
.
“
You
are
a
handsome
wench
,
”
said
the
wayfarer
,
who
was
elderly
and
of
pleasant
visage
;
“
too
handsome
,
a
vast
deal
,
to
be
sitting
alone
like
one
lost
.
What
is
the
matter
?
”
“
Nothing
!
”
she
answered
.
The
old
reserve
clung
to
her
and
fenced
her
secret
in
,
as
the
prickles
of
a
cactus
hedge
may
fence
in
the
magnolia’s
flower
of
snow
.
“
What
,
then
?
Have
you
a
home
?
”
“
No.
”
“
Eh
!
You
must
have
a
lover
?
”
Folle‐Farine’s
lips
grew
whiter
,
and
she
shrank
a
little
;
but
she
answered
,
steadily
:
“
No.
”
“
No
!
And
at
your
age
;
and
handsome
as
a
ripe
,
red
apple
,
—
with
your
skin
of
satin
,
and
your
tangle
of
hair
!
Fie
,
for
shame
!
Are
the
men
blind
?
Where
do
you
rest
to‐night
?
”
“
I
am
going
on
—
south
.
”
“
And
mean
to
walk
all
night
?
Pooh
!
Come
home
with
me
,
and
sup
and
sleep
.
I
live
hard
by
,
just
inside
the
walls
.
”
Folle‐Farine
opened
her
great
eyes
wide
.
It
was
the
first
creature
who
had
ever
offered
her
hospitality
.
It
was
an
old
woman
,
too
;
there
could
be
nothing
but
kindness
in
the
offer
,
she
thought
;
and
kindness
was
so
strange
to
her
,
that
it
troubled
her
more
than
did
cruelty
.
“
You
are
good
,
”
she
said
,
gratefully
,
—
“
very
good
;
but
I
cannot
come
.
”
“
Cannot
come
!
Why
,
then
?
”
“
Because
I
must
go
on
to
Paris
;
I
cannot
lost
an
hour
.
Nevertheless
,
it
is
good
of
you
.
”
The
old
woman
laughed
roughly
.
“
Oh
,
ho
!
the
red
apple
must
go
to
Paris
.
No
other
market
grand
enough
!
Is
that
it
?
”
“
I
do
not
know
what
you
mean
.
”
“
But
stay
with
me
to‐night
.
The
roads
are
dangerous
.
There
are
vagrants
and
ill‐livers
about
.
There
are
great
fogs
,
too
,
in
this
district
;
and
you
will
meet
drunken
soldiers
and
beggars
that
will
rob
you
.
Come
home
with
me
.
I
have
a
pretty
little
place
,
though
poor
;
and
you
shall
have
such
fare
as
I
give
my
own
daughter
.
And
maybe
you
will
see
two
or
three
of
the
young
nobles
.
They
look
in
for
a
laugh
and
a
song
—
all
innocent
:
my
girls
are
favourites
.
Come
,
it
is
not
a
stone’s
throw
through
the
south
gate
.
”
“
You
are
too
good
;
but
I
cannot
come
.
As
for
the
road
,
I
am
not
afraid
.
I
have
a
good
knife
,
and
I
am
strong
.
”
She
spoke
in
all
unconsciousness
,
in
her
heart
thankful
to
this
,
the
first
human
creature
that
had
ever
offered
her
shelter
or
good
nature
.
The
woman
darted
one
sharp
look
at
her
,
venomous
as
an
adder’s
bite
;
then
bade
her
a
short
good‐night
,
and
went
on
her
way
to
the
gates
of
the
town
.
Folle‐Farine
rose
up
and
walked
on
,
taking
her
own
southward
road
.
She
was
ignorant
of
any
peril
that
she
had
escaped
.
She
did
not
know
that
the
only
animals
which
prey
upon
the
young
of
their
own
sex
and
kind
are
women
.
She
was
very
tired
;
long
want
of
sleep
,
anguish
,
and
bodily
fatigue
made
her
dull
,
and
too
exhausted
to
keep
long
upon
her
feet
.
She
looked
about
her
for
some
place
of
rest
;
and
she
knew
that
if
she
did
not
husband
her
strength
,
it
might
fail
her
ere
she
reached
him
,
and
stretch
her
on
a
sick‐bed
in
some
hospital
of
the
poor
.
She
passed
two
of
three
cottages
standing
by
the
roadside
,
with
light
gleaming
through
their
shutters
;
but
she
did
not
knock
at
any
one
of
them
.
She
was
afraid
of
spending
her
three
copper
coins
;
and
she
was
too
proud
to
seek
food
or
lodging
as
an
alms
.
By‐and‐by
when
came
to
a
little
shed
,
standing
where
no
house
was
.
She
looked
in
it
,
and
saw
it
full
of
the
last
season’s
hay
,
dry
and
sweet‐smelling
,
tenanted
only
by
a
cat
rolled
round
in
slumber
.
She
crept
into
it
,
and
laid
herself
down
and
slept
,
the
bright
starry
skies
shining
on
her
through
the
open
space
that
served
for
entrance
,
the
clatter
of
a
little
brook
under
the
poplar
trees
the
only
sound
upon
the
quiet
air
.
Footsteps
went
past
twice
or
thrice
,
and
once
a
waggon
rolled
lumbering
by
;
but
no
one
came
thither
to
disturb
her
,
and
she
sank
into
a
fitful
heavy
sleep
.
At
daybreak
she
was
again
afoot
,
always
on
the
broad
road
to
the
south‐west
.
With
one
of
her
coins
she
bought
a
loaf
and
a
draught
of
milk
,
at
a
hamlet
through
which
she
went
.
She
was
surprised
to
find
that
people
spoke
to
her
without
a
curse
or
taunt
,
and
dealt
with
her
as
with
any
other
human
being
.
Insensibly
with
the
change
of
treatment
,
and
with
the
fresh
sweet
air
,
and
with
the
brisk
movement
that
bore
her
on
her
way
,
her
heart
grew
lighter
,
and
her
old
dauntless
spirit
rose
again
.
She
would
find
him
,
she
thought
,
as
soon
as
ever
she
entered
Paris
;
and
she
would
watch
over
him
,
and
only
go
near
him
if
he
needed
her
.
And
then
,
and
then
—
.
But
her
thoughts
went
no
further
.
She
shut
the
future
out
from
her
;
it
appalled
her
.
Only
one
thing
was
clear
before
her
—
that
she
would
get
him
the
greatness
that
he
thirsted
for
,
if
any
payment
of
her
body
or
her
soul
,
life
or
death
,
could
purchase
it
.
A
great
purpose
nerves
the
life
it
lives
in
,
so
that
no
personal
terrors
can
assail
,
nor
any
minor
woes
afflict
it
.
Hunger
,
thirst
,
fatigue
,
hardship
,
danger
,
—
these
were
all
in
her
path
,
and
she
had
each
in
turn
;
but
not
one
of
them
unnerved
her
.
To
reach
Paris
,
she
felt
that
she
would
have
walked
through
flames
,
or
fasted
forty
days
.
For
two
days
and
nights
she
went
on
—
days
cloudless
,
nights
fine
and
mild
;
then
came
a
day
of
storm
—
sharp
hail
and
loud
thunder
.
She
went
on
through
it
all
the
same
,
the
agony
in
her
heart
made
the
glare
of
lightning
and
the
roar
of
winds
no
more
to
her
than
the
sigh
of
an
April
breeze
over
a
primrose
bank
.
She
had
various
fortunes
on
her
way
.
A
party
of
tramps
crossing
a
meadow
set
on
her
,
and
tried
to
insult
her
;
she
showed
them
her
knife
,
and
with
the
blade
bare
against
her
throat
,
made
them
fall
back
,
and
scattered
them
.
A
dirty
and
tattered
group
of
gipsies
,
squatting
in
a
dry
ditch
under
a
tarpaulin
,
hailed
her
,
and
wanted
her
to
join
with
them
and
share
their
broken
food
.
She
eluded
them
with
disgust
;
they
were
not
like
the
gitanos
of
Liébana
,
and
she
took
them
to
be
beggars
and
thieves
,
as
indeed
,
they
were
.
At
a
little
wayside
cabin
,
a
girl
,
with
a
bright
rosy
face
,
spoke
softly
and
cheerily
to
her
,
and
bade
her
rest
awhile
on
the
bench
in
the
porch
under
the
vines
;
and
brought
out
some
white
pigeons
to
show
her
;
and
asked
her
,
with
interest
,
whence
she
came
.
And
she
,
in
her
fierceness
and
her
shyness
,
was
touched
,
and
wondered
greatly
that
any
female
thing
could
be
thus
good
.
She
met
an
old
man
with
an
organ
on
his
back
,
and
a
monkey
on
his
shoulder
.
He
was
old
and
infirm
.
She
carried
his
organ
for
him
awhile
,
as
they
went
along
the
same
road
;
and
he
was
gentle
and
kind
in
return
,
and
made
the
route
she
had
to
take
clear
to
her
,
and
told
her
,
with
a
shake
of
his
head
that
Paris
would
either
be
hell
or
heaven
to
such
as
she
.
And
she
,
hearing
,
smiled
a
little
,
for
the
first
time
since
she
had
left
Yprès
,
and
thought
—
heaven
or
hell
,
what
would
it
matter
which
,
so
long
as
she
found
Arslàn
?
Of
Dante
she
had
never
heard
;
but
the
spirit
of
the
“
questi
chi
mai
da
me
non
piu
diviso
”
dwells
untaught
in
every
great
love
.
Once
