Not for the poet creator of “Nourhulma” such love any more,—­had he not drained the cup of Passion to the dregs in the far Past, and tasted its mixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence?  All that was over;—­and yet, as he walked away from the bridge, back to his hotel in the quiet moonlight, he thought what a transcendent thing Love might be, even on earth, between two whose spirits were spiritually akin,—­whose lives were like two notes played in tuneful concord,—­whose hearts beat echoing faith and tenderness to one another,—­and who held their love as a sacred bond of union—­a gift from God, not to be despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely brings contempt.  And then before his fancy appeared to float the radiant visage of Edris, half-child, half-angel,—­he seemed to see her beautiful eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge of sin,—­ and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, whose work he specially admired, occurred to him with singular suggestiveness: 

   “Oh, thou’lt confess that love from man to maid
    Is more than kingdoms,—­more than light and shade
    In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell,
    And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell. 
    Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this,
    And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss,
    Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain,
    Athwart the raptures of a vision’d bliss.

   “I’ll seek no joy that is not linked with thine,
    No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine,
    And after death, no home in any star,
    That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar

    As here thou’rt first and foremost of all things! 
    Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings
    That wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway,
    Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings!”

Had not she, Edris, consigned him to his “own disdain, Athwart the raptures of a visioned bliss?” Ay! truly and deservedly!—­and this disdain of himself had now reached its culminating point,—­namely, that he did not consider himself worthy of her love,—­or worthy to do aught than sink again into far spaces of darkness and perpetually retrospective Memory, there to explore the uttermost depths of anguish, and count up his errors one by one from the very beginning of life, in every separate phase he had passed through, till he had penitently striven his best to atone for them all!  Christ had atoned! yes,—­but was it not almost base on his part to shield himself with that Divine Light and do nothing further?  He could not yet thoroughly grasp the amazing truth that one absolutely pure act of faith in Christ, blots out Past Sin forever,—­it seemed too marvellous and great a boon!