“It was not to be always so,” she continued, an appealing vehemence quivering through her tones.  “Some day I was to see Him and know Him more clearly.  Shine on me, Balder! am not I your priestess? in the morning do not I worship you, and at noon, and in the evening?  At night do not I kneel at your altar and pray you to care for me while I sleep?  Hear me, Balder!  I see you in all things,—­they are your thoughts and meet again in you!  The sun himself is but your shadow!  Do not I know you, my Balder?  Be not clouded from your servant!  Leave me not,—­take me with you where you go!”

It was at this moment that the young man’s mind, stumbling stupidly hither and thither, chanced to encounter that picture of the courtesan, leaning from the open window in the city street, beckoning him to come.  She took Gnulemah’s place, beckoning, making a hateful parody of Gnulemah’s expression and gestures.  Could a devil take the consecrated place of angels? or was the angel a worse devil in disguise?  In the same day, to him the same man, could two such voices speak,—­such faces look?  And could the germ of Godhead abide in a soul liable to the irony of such vicarious solicitation?

Speech or motion was still denied him.  His priestess, strengthened by religious passion, was bold to touch with hers his divine hand, on the finger of which demoniacally glittered the murder-token.  The hand was so cold and lax that even the smooth warmth of her soft fingers failed to put life in it.

“You have taken Hiero to yourself,—­take me also! be my God as well as his, for I shall be alone now he is gone.  This ring which he always wore—­”

Balder roughly snatched back his hand.

“Hiero’s ring?”

“Why do you look so?—­is it not a sign to me from him?”

“Hiero’s ring?—­tell me, Gnulemah, is this Hiero’s ring?—­Stop—­stand up!  No—­call me Satan!—­Hiero’s ring!”

“Where is Hiero, then?” demanded Gnulemah, rising and dilating.  “You wear his ring,—­what have you done with him?—­Is there no God?”

The words came riding on the waves of deep-drawn breaths, for her soul was in a tumult.  Her life had thus far been like a quiet sequestered pool, reflecting only the sky, and the ferns and flowers that bent above its margin; ignorant, moreover, of its own depth and nature.  Now, invaded by storm, God and nature seemed swept away and lost, and a terror of loneliness darkened over it.

“Is there no Balder?” reiterated Gnulemah.  But all at once the fierceness in her eyes melted, as lightning is followed by summer rain.  She came so near,—­he standing dulled with horror of his discovery,—­came so near that her breath touched him, and he could hear the faint rustling of the white byssus on her bosom, and the soft tinkle of the broad pendants that glowed against her black hair; and could see how profoundly real her beauty was.  Mighty and beneficent must be the force or the law which could combine the rude elements into such a form of life as this!