as though thou hadst passed thy days in reading ill-writ Greek, and been stained dark with the grime of manuscripts.  So draw the curtain, and sit here by my side, and we will eat fruit, and talk of pleasant things.  See, I will again unveil to thee.  Thou hast brought it on thyself, oh Holly; fairly have I warned thee—­and thou shalt call me beautiful as even those old philosophers were wont to do.  Fie upon them, forgetting their philosophy!”

And without more ado she stood up and shook the white wrappings from her, and came forth shining and splendid like some glittering snake when she has cast her slough; ay, and fixed her wonderful eyes upon me—­more deadly than any Basilisk’s—­and pierced me through and through with their beauty, and sent her light laugh ringing through the air like chimes of silver bells.

A new mood was on her, and the very colour of her mind seemed to change beneath it.  It was no longer torture-torn and hateful, as I had seen it when she was cursing her dead rival by the leaping flames, no longer icily terrible as in the judgment-hall, no longer rich, and sombre, and splendid, like a Tyrian cloth, as in the dwellings of the dead.  No, her mood now was that of Aphrodite triumphing.  Life—­radiant, ecstatic, wonderful—­seemed to flow from her and around her.  Softly she laughed and sighed, and swift her glances flew.  She shook her heavy tresses, and their perfume filled the place; she struck her little sandalled foot upon the floor, and hummed a snatch of some old Greek epithalamium.  All the majesty was gone, or did but lurk and faintly flicker through her laughing eyes, like lightning seen through sunlight.  She had cast off the terror of the leaping flame, the cold power of judgment that was even now being done, and the wise sadness of the tombs—­cast them off and put them behind her, like the white shroud she wore, and now stood out the incarnation of lovely tempting womanhood, made more perfect—­and in a way more spiritual—­than ever woman was before.

“So, my Holly, sit there where thou canst see me.  It is by thine own wish, remember—­again I say, blame me not if thou dost wear away thy little span with such a sick pain at the heart that thou wouldst fain have died before ever thy curious eyes were set upon me.  There, sit so, and tell me, for in truth I am inclined for praises—­tell me, am I not beautiful?  Nay, speak not so hastily; consider well the point; take me feature by feature, forgetting not my form, and my hands and feet, and my hair, and the whiteness of my skin, and then tell me truly, hast thou ever known a woman who in aught, ay, in one little portion of her beauty, in the curve of an eyelash even, or the modelling of a shell-like ear, is justified to hold a light before my loveliness?  Now, my waist!  Perchance thou thinkest it too large, but of a truth it is not so; it is this golden snake that is too large, and doth not bind it as it should.  It is a wide snake, and knoweth that it is ill to tie in the waist.  But see, give me thy hands—­so—­now press them round me, and there, with but a little force, thy fingers touch, oh Holly.”