And then I heard her utter a helpless sort of moan; a sound which, struggling out of the heart of a person of her pride and strength, affected me more than if she had made the wood dolorously vocal with a thousand shrieks and wails.

Other mysterious words, besides what are above written, they spoke together; but I understood no more, and even question whether I fairly understood so much as this.  By long brooding over our recollections, we subtilize them into something akin to imaginary stuff, and hardly capable of being distinguished from it.  In a few moments they were completely beyond ear-shot.  A breeze stirred after them, and awoke the leafy tongues of the surrounding trees, which forthwith began to babble, as if innumerable gossips had all at once got wind of Zenobia’s secret.  But, as the breeze grew stronger, its voice among the branches was as if it said, “Hush!  Hush!” and I resolved that to no mortal would I disclose what I had heard.  And, though there might be room for casuistry, such, I conceive, is the most equitable rule in all similar conjunctures.

XIII.  ZENOBIA’S LEGEND

The illustrious Society of Blithedale, though it toiled in downright earnest for the good of mankind, yet not unfrequently illuminated its laborious life with an afternoon or evening of pastime.  Picnics under the trees were considerably in vogue; and, within doors, fragmentary bits of theatrical performance, such as single acts of tragedy or comedy, or dramatic proverbs and charades.  Zenobia, besides, was fond of giving us readings from Shakespeare, and often with a depth of tragic power, or breadth of comic effect, that made one feel it an intolerable wrong to the world that she did not at once go upon the stage.  Tableaux vivants were another of our occasional modes of amusement, in which scarlet shawls, old silken robes, ruffs, velvets, furs, and all kinds of miscellaneous trumpery converted our familiar companions into the people of a pictorial world.  We had been thus engaged on the evening after the incident narrated in the last chapter.  Several splendid works of art—­either arranged after engravings from the old masters, or original illustrations of scenes in history or romance—­had been presented, and we were earnestly entreating Zenobia for more.

She stood with a meditative air, holding a large piece of gauze, or some such ethereal stuff, as if considering what picture should next occupy the frame; while at her feet lay a heap of many-colored garments, which her quick fancy and magic skill could so easily convert into gorgeous draperies for heroes and princesses.

“I am getting weary of this,” said she, after a moment’s thought.  “Our own features, and our own figures and airs, show a little too intrusively through all the characters we assume.  We have so much familiarity with

one another’s realities, that we cannot remove ourselves, at pleasure, into an imaginary sphere.  Let us have no more pictures to-night; but, to make you what poor amends I can, how would you like to have me trump up a wild, spectral legend, on the spur of the moment?”