But such is long ago. Tell me, now, is
the world yet harsh with men and sad with women? Burns yet that
madness mirth calls Life? or truly does the puny, busy-tongued race
sleep at last, nodding no more at me?"
I told as best I could how chance had fetched me; told, too, that
earth was yet pestered with men, and heavenly with women. "And the
madness mirth calls Life flickers yet," I said; "and the little race
tosses on in nightmare."
"Ah!" she replied, "so ever run travellers' tales. I too once trusted
to seem indifferent. But you, if shadow deceives me not, may yet
return: I, only to the shades whence earth draws me. Meanwhile," she
said, looking softly at the fountain playing in the clear gloom
beyond, "rest and grow weary again, for there flock more questions to
my tongue than spines on the blackthorn. The gardens are green with
flowers, Traveller; let us talk where rosemary blows."
Following her, I thought of the mysterious beauty of her eyes, her
pallor, her slimness, and that faint smile which hovered between
ecstasy and indifference, and away went my mind to one whom the
shrewdest and tenderest of my own countrymen called once Criseyde.
Pages:
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174