_I_ must look on the ground and make amends. 'Tis this same
making amends men now call 'Purgatory,' they tell me."
"'Amends,'" I said; "to whom? for what?"
"Welaway," said she, with a narrow fork between her brows; "to most
men and to all women, for being that Criseyde." She gazed half
solemnly at some picture of reverie.
"But which Criseyde?" I said. "She who was every wind's, or but one
perfect summer's?"
She glanced strangely at me. "Ask of the night that burns so many
stars," she said. "All's done; all passes. Yet my poor busy Uncle
Pandar had no such changes, nor Hector, nor ... Men change not: they
love and love again--one same tune of a myriad verses."
"All?" I said.
She tossed lightly a little dust from her hand.
"Nay--all," she replied; "but what is that to me? Mine only to see
Charon on the wave pass light over and return. Man of the green world,
prithee die not yet awhile! 'Tis dull being a shade. See these cold
palms! Yet my heart beats on."
"For what?" I said.
Criseyde folded her hands and leaned her cheek sidelong upon the
stone.
"For what?" I repeated.
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