“Have all died who saw your eyes, Silencieux?”

“Yes, all died.”

“You have had many lovers, Silencieux.  Many lovers, and far from here, and long ago.”

“Yes, many lovers, long ago,” echoed Silencieux.

“You have been very cruel, Silencieux.”

“Yes, very cruel, but very kind.  It is true men have died for me.  I have been cruel, yes, but to die for me has seemed better than to live for any other.  And some of my lovers I have never forsaken.  When they have lost all in the world, they have had me.  Lonely garrets have seemed richly furnished because of my face, and men with foodless lips have died blest because I was near them at the last.  Sometimes I have kissed their lips and died with them, and the world has missed my face for a hundred unlovely years—­for the world is only beautiful when I and my lovers are in it.  Antony, you are one of my lovers, one of my dearest lovers; be great enough, be all mine, and perhaps I will die with you, Antony—­and leave the world in darkness for your sake, another hundred years.”

“Tell me of your lovers, Silencieux.”

“Nearly three thousand years ago I loved a woman of Mitylene, very fair and made of fire.  But she loved another more than I, and for his sake threw herself from a rock into the sea.  As she fell, the rose we had made together fell from her bosom, and was torn to pieces by the sea.  Fishermen gathered here and there a petal floating on the waters,—­but what were they?—­and the world has never known how wonderful was that rose of our love which she took with her into the depths of the sea.”

“You are faithful, Silencieux; you love her still.”

“Yes, I love her still.”

“And with whom did love come next, Silencieux?”

“Oh, I loved many those years, for the loss of a great love sends us vainly from hand to hand of many lesser loves, to ease a little the great ache; and at that time the world seemed full of my lovers.  I have forgotten none of them.  They pass before me, a fair frieze of unforgotten faces; but most I loved a Roman poet, because, perhaps, he loved so well the memory of her I had loved, and knew so skilfully to make bloom again among his own red roses those petals of passionate ivory which the fishermen of Lesbos had recovered from the sea.”

“Tell me of your lovers, Silencieux,” said Antony again.

“Hundreds of years after, I loved in Florence a young poet with a face of silver.  His soul was given to a little red-cheeked girl.  She died, and then I took him to my bosom, and loved him on through the years, till his face had grown iron with many sorrows.  Now at last, his baby-girl by his side, he sits in heaven, with a face of gold.  In Paris,” she went on, “have I been wonderfully beloved, and in northern lands near the pole—­”

“But—­England?” said Antony.  “Tell me of your English lovers.”