He embraced her and pressed her close to his heart, and Ludovicka leaned her head upon his shoulder and looked up at him with moist and glowing eyes.  He nodded smilingly to her, and then took her head between his two hands and gazed long and rapturously upon her beautiful face.

“So I have you at last, and hold you, my golden butterfly,” he said gently.  “You are mine at last, and I hold you fast by your transparent wings, so that you can not flutter away from me again to fly up to the sun, the flowers, the trees!  O my butterfly! you pretty creature, made of ethereal dust and rainbow splendor, of air and sunshine, of lightning flashes and icy coldness, are you actually mine, then?  May I trust you?  Think not I am only a poor little flower on which you may smilingly rock yourself an hour in the sunshine, and enjoy the perfume which mounts up from its heart’s blood, and the love songs which its sighs waft to you in the breeze!  Tell me, you butterfly, will you no more flutter away, but be true and never more distress and torment me?”

“I have never wished to distress and torment you, cousin.”

“And yet you have done it, so often, so grievously!” cried he, and his handsome open countenance grew quickly dark, while his eyes flashed with indignation.  “Ludovicka,” he continued, “you have tortured and tormented me, and often when I have seen how you smiled upon others and exchanged glances with them, and allowed yourself to be pleased by their homage, their devotion—­often have I felt then as if an iron fist had seized my heart to tear it from my breast, and felt as if I enjoyed this, and as if I exulted with delight over my own wrath.  Tear out my foolish heart, you iron fist of pain, said I to myself; cast it far from me, this childish heart, for then shall I be happy and glad, then shall I no longer feel love but be freed from the fearful bondage it imposes upon me.  How often, Ludovicka, how often have I been ashamed of these chains, and bitten at them, as the lion, languishing in a dungeon, bites at his.”

“Truly, fair sir,” cried Ludovicka, as arm in arm she and her beloved moved toward the divan—­“truly, to hear you talk, one would suppose that love was a misfortune and a pain.”

“It is so indeed,” said he, almost savagely—­“yes, love is a misfortune and a pain; for with love comes doubt, jealousy, and jealousy is the most dreadful pain.  And then I have often said to myself as I wept about you for rage and woe because I have seen you more friendly with others than with me—­I have often said to myself that it is unworthy of a man to allow himself to be subjected by love, unworthy to make a woman the mistress of his thoughts, of his desires; that a man should strive for higher aims, aspire to nobler things.”

“To nobler things?  Now tell me, you monster, is there anything nobler than a woman?  Is there a higher aim than to win her love?”

“No; that is true, there is nothing higher!” cried he passionately.  “No there is nothing nobler.  Oh, forgive me, Ludovicka, I was a heathen, who denies his goddess, and finds fault with her out of excess of feeling.  My God!  I have suffered so much through you and your cruelty!  And I tell you if you had not now at last heard my petition, at last granted me a rendezvous, then—­”