Then she began to weep in good earnest, and watching her, for the first time I understood that this glorious creature who seemed to be so powerful, was after all one of the most miserable of women and as much a prey to loneliness, every sort of passion and apprehensive fear, as can be any common mortal.  If, as she said, she had found the secret of life, which of course I did not believe, at least it was obvious that she had lost that of happiness.

She sobbed softly and wept and while she did so the loveliness, which had left her for a little while, returned to her like light to a grey and darkened sky.  Oh, how beautiful she seemed with the abundant locks in disorder over her tear-stained face, how beautiful beyond imagining!  My heart melted as I studied her; I could think of nothing else except her surpassing charm and glory.

“I pray you, do not weep,” I said; “it hurts me and indeed I am sorry if I said anything to give you pain.”

But she only shook that glorious hair further about her face and behind its veil wept on.

“You know, Ayesha,” I continued, “you have said many hard things to me, making me the target of your bitter wit, therefore it is not strange that at last I answered you.”

“And hast thou not deserved them, Allan?” she murmured in soft and broken tones from behind that veil of scented locks.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because from the beginning thou didst defy me, showing in thine every accent that thou heldest me a liar and one of no account in body or in spirit, one not worthy of thy kind look, or of those gentle words which once were my portion among men.  Oh! thou hast dealt hardly with me and therefore perchance—­I know not—­I paid thee back with such poor weapons as a woman holds, though all the while I liked thee well.”

Then again she fell to sobbing, swaying herself gently to and fro in her sweet sorrow.

It was too much.  Not knowing what else to do to comfort her, I patted her ivory hand which lay upon the couch beside me, and as this appeared to have no effect, I kissed it, which she did not seem to resent.  Then suddenly I remembered and let it fall.

She tossed back her hair from her face and fixing her big eyes on me, said gently enough, looking down at her hand,

“What ails thee, Allan?”

“Oh, nothing,” I answered; “only I remembered the story you told me about some man called Kallikrates.”

She frowned.

“And what of Kallikrates, Allan?  Is it not enough that for my sins, with tears, empty longings and repentance, I must wait for him through all the weary centuries?  Must I also wear the chains of this Kallikrates, to whom I owe many a debt, when he is far away?  Say, didst thou see him in that Heaven of thine, Allan, for there perchance he dwells?”

I shook my head and tried to think the thing out while all the time those wonderful eyes of hers seemed to draw the soul from me.  It seemed to me that she bent forward and held up her face to me.  Then I lost my reason and also bent forward.  Yes, she made me mad, and, save her, I forgot all.