She had a seizure of the nerves.

The likeness between them was, she felt, too flamingly keen to be looked at further.  She reached to the dim idea of some such nauseous devotion, and took a shot in her breast as she did so, and abjured it, and softened to her victim.  Clotilde opened her arms, charming away her wound, as she soothed him, both by the act of soothing and the reflection that she could not be so very like one whom she pitied and consoled.

She was charitably tender.  If it be thought that she was cruel to excess, plead for her the temptation to simple human nature at sight of a youth who could be precipitated into the writhings of dissolution, and raised out of it by a smile.  This young man’s responsive spirit acted on her as the discovery of specifics for restoring soundness to the frame excites the brilliant empiric:  he would slay us with benevolent soul to show the miracle of our revival.  Worship provokes the mortal goddess to a manifestation of her powers; and really the devotee is full half to blame.

She had latterly been thinking of Alvan’s rejection of the part of centaur; and his phrase, the quadruped man, breathed meaning.  He was to gain her lawfully after dominating her utterly.  That was right, but it levelled imagination.  There is in the sentimental kingdom of Love a form of reasoning, by which a lady of romantic notions who is dominated utterly, will ask herself why she should be gained lawfully:  and she is moved to do so by the consideration that if the latter, no necessity can exist for the former:  and the reverse.  In the union of the two conditions she sees herself slavishly domesticated.  With her Indian Bacchus imagination rose, for he was pliant:  she had only to fancy, and he was beside her.—­Quick to the saddle, away!  The forest of terrors is ahead; they are at the verge of it; a last hamlet perches on its borders; the dwellers have haunted faces; the timbers of their huts lean to an upright in wry splinters; warnings are moaned by men and women with the voice of a night-wind; but on and on! the forest cannot be worse than a world defied.  They drain a cup of milk apiece and they spur, for this is the way to the golden Indian land of the planted vine and the lover’s godship.—­Ludicrous!  There is no getting farther than the cup of milk with Marko.  They curvet and caper to be forward unavailingly.  It should be Alvan to bring her through the forest to the planted vine in sunland.  Her splendid prose Alvan could do what the sprig of poetry can but suggest.  Never would malicious fairy in old woman’s form have offered Alvan a cup of milk to paralyze his bride’s imagination of him confronting perils.  Yet, O shameful contrariety of the fates! he who could, will not; he who would, is incapable.  Let it not be supposed that the desire of her bosom was to be run away with in person.  Her simple human nature wished for the hero to lift her insensibly over the difficult opening chapter of the romance—­through