the great changing eyes of deepest, softest black, of the tinted face, of the broad and noble brow, on which the hair grew low, and delicate, straight features.  But, beautiful, surpassingly beautiful as they all were, her loveliness did not lie in them.  It lay rather, if it can be said to have had any fixed abiding place, in a visible majesty, in an imperial grace, in a godlike stamp of softened power, which shone upon that radiant countenance like a living halo.  Never before had I guessed what beauty made sublime could be—­and yet, the sublimity was a dark one—­the glory was not all of heaven—­though none the less was it glorious.  Though the face before me was that of a young woman of certainly not more than thirty years, in perfect health, and the first flush of ripened beauty, yet it had stamped upon it a look of unutterable experience, and of deep acquaintance with grief and passion.  Not even the lovely smile that crept about the dimples of her mouth could hide this shadow of sin and sorrow.  It shone even in the light of the glorious eyes, it was present in the air of majesty, and it seemed to say:  “Behold me, lovely as no woman was or is, undying and half-divine; memory haunts me from age to age, and passion leads me by the hand—­evil have I done, and from age to age evil I shall do, and sorrow shall I know till my redemption comes.”

Drawn by some magnetic force which I could not resist, I let my eyes rest upon her shining orbs, and felt a current pass from them to me that bewildered and half-blinded me.

She laughed—­ah, how musically! and nodded her little head at me with an air of sublimated coquetry that would have done credit to a Venus Victrix.

“Rash man!” she said; “like Actaeon, thou hast had thy will; be careful lest, like Actaeon, thou too dost perish miserably, torn to pieces by the ban-hounds of thine own passions.  I too, oh Holly, am a virgin goddess, not to be moved of any man, save one, and it is not thou.  Say, hast thou seen enough!”

“I have looked on beauty, and I am blinded,” I said hoarsely, lifting my hand to cover up my eyes.

“So! what did I tell thee?  Beauty is like the lightning; it is lovely, but it destroys—­especially trees, oh Holly!” and again she nodded and laughed.

Suddenly she paused, and through my fingers I saw an awful change come over her countenance.  Her great eyes suddenly fixed themselves into an expression in which horror seemed to struggle with some tremendous hope arising through the depths of her dark soul.  The lovely face grew rigid, and the gracious willowy form seemed to erect itself.

“Man,” she half whispered, half hissed, throwing back her head like a snake about to strike—­“Man, whence hadst thou that scarab on thy hand?  Speak, or by the Spirit of Life I will blast thee where thou standest!” and she took one light step towards me, and from her eyes there shone such an awful light—­to me it seemed almost like a flame—­that I fell, then and there, on the ground before her, babbling confusedly in my terror.