“Forgive thee, thou fiend,” roared poor Leo, wringing his hands in his rage and grief.  “Forgive thee, thou murderess!  By Heaven, I will kill thee if I can!”

“Nay, nay,” she answered in the same soft voice, “thou dost not understand—­the time has come for thee to learn. Thou art my love, my Kallikrates, my Beautiful, my Strong!  For two thousand years, Kallikrates, have I waited for thee, and now at length thou hast come back to me; and as for this woman,” pointing to the corpse, “she stood between me and thee, and therefore have I laid her in the dust, Kallikrates.”

“It is an accursed lie!” said Leo.  “My name is not Kallikrates!  I am Leo Vincey; my ancestor was Kallikrates—­at least, I believe he was.”

“Ah, thou sayest it—­thine ancestor was Kallikrates, and thou, even thou, art Kallikrates reborn, come back—­and mine own dear lord!”

“I am not Kallikrates, and, as for being thy lord, or having aught to do with thee, I had sooner be the lord of a fiend from hell, for she would be better than thou.”

“Sayest thou so—­sayest thou so, Kallikrates?  Nay, but thou hast not seen me for so long a time that no memory remains.  Yet am I very fair, Kallikrates!”

“I hate thee, murderess, and I have no wish to see thee.  What is it to me how fair thou art?  I hate thee, I say.”

“Yet within a very little space shalt thou creep to my knee, and swear that thou dost love me,” answered Ayesha, with a sweet, mocking laugh.  “Come, there is no time like the present time, here before this dead girl who loved thee, let us put it to the proof.

“Look now on me, Kallikrates!” and with a sudden motion she shook her gauzy covering from her, and stood forth in her low kirtle and her snaky zone, in her glorious radiant beauty and her imperial grace, rising from her wrappings, as it were, like Venus from the wave, or Galatea from her marble, or a beatified spirit from the tomb.  She stood forth, and fixed her deep and glowing eyes upon Leo’s eyes, and I saw his clenched fists unclasp, and his set and quivering features relax beneath her gaze.  I saw his wonder and astonishment grow into admiration, and then into fascination, and the more he struggled the more I saw the power of her dread beauty fasten on him and take possession of his senses, drugging them, and drawing the heart out of him.  Did I not know the process?  Had not I, who was twice his age, gone through it myself?  Was I not going through it afresh even then, although her sweet and passionate gaze was not for me?  Yes, alas, I was!  Alas, that I should have to confess that at that very moment I was rent by mad and furious jealousy.  I could have flown at him, shame upon me!  The woman had confounded and almost destroyed my moral sense, as she was bound to confound all who looked upon her superhuman loveliness.  But—­I do not quite know how—­I got the better of myself, and once more turned to see the climax of the tragedy.