



Produced by Dagny; John Bickers





THE WITCH OF PRAGUE

A FANTASTIC TALE

By F. Marion Crawford




CHAPTER I

A great multitude of people filled the church, crowded together in
the old black pews, standing closely thronged in the nave and aisles,
pressing shoulder to shoulder even in the two chapels on the right and
left of the apse, a vast gathering of pale men and women whose eyes
were sad and in whose faces was written the history of their nation. The
mighty shafts and pilasters of the Gothic edifice rose like the stems of
giant trees in a primeval forest from a dusky undergrowth, spreading out
and uniting their stony branches far above in the upper gloom. From the
clerestory windows of the nave an uncertain light descended halfway to
the depths and seemed to float upon the darkness below as oil upon the
water of a well. Over the western entrance the huge fantastic organ
bristled with blackened pipes and dusty gilded ornaments of colossal
size, like some enormous kingly crown long forgotten in the lumber
room of the universe, tarnished and overlaid with the dust of ages.
Eastwards, before the rail which separated the high altar from the
people, wax torches, so thick that a man might not span one of them with
both his hands, were set up at irregular intervals, some taller, some
shorter, burning with steady, golden flames, each one surrounded with
heavy funeral wreaths, and each having a tablet below it, whereon were
set forth in the Bohemian idiom, the names, titles, and qualities of
him or her in whose memory it was lighted. Innumerable lamps and tapers
before the side altars and under the strange canopied shrines at the
bases of the pillars, struggled ineffectually with the gloom, shedding
but a few sickly yellow rays upon the pallid faces of the persons
nearest to their light.

Suddenly the heavy vibration of a single pedal note burst from the
organ upon the breathing silence, long drawn out, rich, voluminous,
and imposing. Presently, upon the massive bass, great chords grew up,
succeeding each other in a simple modulation, rising then with the
blare of trumpets and the simultaneous crash of mixtures, fifteenths
and coupled pedals to a deafening peal, then subsiding quickly again
and terminating in one long sustained common chord. And now, as the
celebrant bowed at the lowest step before the high altar, the voices of
the innumerable congregation joined the harmony of the organ, ringing
up to the groined roof in an ancient Slavonic melody, melancholy
and beautiful, and rendered yet more unlike all other music by the
undefinable character of the Bohemian language, in which tones softer
than those of the softest southern tongue alternate so oddly with rough
gutturals and strident sibilants.

The Wanderer stood in the midst of the throng, erect, taller than the
men near him, holding his head high, so that a little of the light from
the memorial torches reached his thoughtful, manly face, making the
noble and passionate features to stand out clearly, while losing its
power of illumination in the dark beard and among the shadows of his
hair. His was a face such as Rembrandt would have painted, seen under
the light that Rembrandt loved best; for the expression seemed to
overcome the surrounding gloom by its own luminous quality, while the
deep gray eyes were made almost black by the wide expansion of the
pupils; the dusky brows clearly defined the boundary in the face between
passion and thought, and the pale forehead, by its slight recession into
the shade from its middle prominence, proclaimed the man of heart, the
man of faith, the man of devotion, as well as the intuitive nature of
the delicately sensitive mind and the quick, elastic qualities of the
man's finely organized, but nervous bodily constitution. The long white
fingers of one hand stirred restlessly, twitching at the fur of his
broad lapel which was turned back across his chest, and from time to
time he drew a deep breath and sighed, not painfully, but wearily and
hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows that his happiness is long past
and that his liberation from the burden of life is yet far off in the
future.

The celebrant reached the reading of the Gospel and the men and women
in the pews rose to their feet. Still the singing of the long-drawn-out
stanzas of the hymn continued with unflagging devotion, and still the
deep accompaniment of the ancient organ sustained the mighty chorus of
voices. The Gospel over, the people sank into their seats again, not
standing, as is the custom in some countries, until the Creed had
been said. Here and there, indeed, a woman, perhaps a stranger in the
country, remained upon her feet, noticeable among the many figures
seated in the pews. The Wanderer, familiar with many lands and many
varying traditions of worship, unconsciously noted these exceptions,
looking with a vague curiosity from one to the other. Then, all at once,
his tall frame shivered from head to foot, and his fingers convulsively
grasped the yielding sable on which they lay.

She was there, the woman he had sought so long, whose face he had not
found in the cities and dwellings of the living, neither her grave in
the silent communities of the dead. There, before the uncouth monument
of dark red marble beneath which Tycho Brahe rests in peace, there she
stood; not as he had seen her last on that day when his senses had left
him in the delirium of his sickness, not in the freshness of her bloom
and of her dark loveliness, but changed as he had dreamed in evil dreams
that death would have power to change her. The warm olive of her cheek
was turned to the hue of wax, the soft shadows beneath her velvet eyes
were deepened and hardened, her expression, once yielding and changing
under the breath of thought and feeling as a field of flowers when
the west wind blows, was now set, as though for ever, in a death-like
fixity. The delicate features were drawn and pinched, the nostrils
contracted, the colourless lips straightened out of the lines of beauty
into the mould of a lifeless mask. It was the face of a dead woman, but
it was her face still, and the Wanderer knew it well; in the kingdom
of his soul the whole resistless commonwealth of the emotions revolted
together to dethrone death's regent--sorrow, while the thrice-tempered
springs of passion, bent but not broken, stirred suddenly in the palace
of his body and shook the strong foundations of his being.

During the seconds that followed, his eyes were riveted upon the beloved
head. Then, as the Creed ended, the vision sank down and was lost to his
sight. She was seated now, and the broad sea of humanity hid her from
him, though he raised himself the full height of his stature in the
effort to distinguish even the least part of her head-dress. To move
from his place was all but impossible, though the fierce longing to be
near her bade him trample even upon the shoulders of the throng to reach
her, as men have done more than once to save themselves from death by
fire in crowded places. Still the singing of the hymn continued, and
would continue, as he knew, until the moment of the Elevation. He
strained his hearing to catch the sounds that came from the quarter
where she sat. In a chorus of a thousand singers he fancied that he
could have distinguished the tender, heart-stirring vibration of her
tones. Never woman sang, never could woman sing again, as she had once
sung, though her voice had been as soft as it had been sweet, and tuned
to vibrate in the heart rather than in the ear. As the strains rose
and fell, the Wanderer bowed his head and closed his eyes, listening,
through the maze of sounds, for the silvery ring of her magic note.
Something he heard at last, something that sent a thrill from his ear to
his heart, unless indeed his heart itself were making music for his
ears to hear. The impression reached him fitfully, often interrupted and
lost, but as often renewing itself and reawakening in the listener the
certainty of recognition which he had felt at the sight of the singer's
face.

He who loves with his whole soul has a knowledge and a learning which
surpass the wisdom of those who spend their lives in the study of things
living or long dead, or never animate. They, indeed, can construct
the figure of a flower from the dried web of a single leaf, or by the
examination of a dusty seed, and they can set up the scheme of life of a
shadowy mammoth out of a fragment of its skeleton, or tell the story
of hill and valley from the contemplation of a handful of earth or of
a broken pebble. Often they are right, sometimes they are driven deeper
and deeper into error by the complicated imperfections of their own
science. But he who loves greatly possesses in his intuition the
capacities of all instruments of observation which man has invented and
applied to his use. The lenses of his eyes can magnify the infinitesimal
detail to the dimensions of common things, and bring objects to his
vision from immeasurable distances; the labyrinth of his ear can choose
and distinguish amidst the harmonies and the discords of the world,
muffling in its tortuous passages the reverberation of ordinary sounds
while multiplying a hundredfold the faint tones of the one beloved
voice. His whole body and his whole intelligence form together an
instrument of exquisite sensibility whereby the perceptions of his
inmost soul are hourly tortured, delighted, caught up into ecstasy, torn
and crushed by jealousy and fear, or plunged into the frigid waters of
despair.

The melancholy hymn resounded through the vast church, but though the
Wanderer stretched the faculty of hearing to the utmost, he could no
longer find the note he sought amongst the vibrations of the dank and
heavy air. Then an irresistible longing came upon him to turn and force
his way through the dense throng of men and women, to reach the aisle
and press past the huge pillar till he could slip between the tombstone
of the astronomer and the row of back wooden seats. Once there, he
should see her face to face.

He turned, indeed, as he stood, and he tried to move a few steps. On all
sides curious looks were directed upon him, but no one offered to make
way, and still the monotonous singing continued until he felt himself
deafened, as he faced the great congregation.

"I am ill," he said in a low voice to those nearest to him. "Pray let me
pass!"

His face was white, indeed, and those who heard his words believed him.
A mild old man raised his sad blue eyes, gazed at him, and while trying
to draw back, gently shook his head. A pale woman, whose sickly features
were half veiled in the folds of a torn black shawl, moved as far as
she could, shrinking as the very poor and miserable shrink when they are
expected to make way before the rich and the strong. A lad of fifteen
stood upon tiptoe to make himself even slighter than he was and thus to
widen the way, and the Wanderer found himself, after repeated efforts,
as much as two steps distant from his former position. He was still
trying to divide the crowd when the music suddenly ceased, and the
tones of the organ died away far up under the western window. It was the
moment of the Elevation, and the first silvery tinkling of the bell,
the people swayed a little, all those who were able kneeling, and those
whose movements were impeded by the press of worshippers bending towards
the altar as a field of grain before the gale. The Wanderer turned again
and bowed himself with the rest, devoutly and humbly, with half-closed
eyes, as he strove to collect and control his thoughts in the presence
of the chief mystery of his Faith. Three times the tiny bell was rung, a
pause followed, and thrice again the clear jingle of the metal broke the
solemn stillness. Then once more the people stirred, and the soft sound
of their simultaneous motion was like a mighty sigh breathed up from the
secret vaults and the deep foundations of the ancient church; again the
pedal note of the organ boomed through the nave and aisles, and again
the thousands of human voices took up the strain of song.

The Wanderer glanced about him, measuring the distance he must traverse
to reach the monument of the Danish astronomer and confronting it with
the short time which now remained before the end of the Mass. He saw
that in such a throng he would have no chance of gaining the position he
wished to occupy in less than half an hour, and he had not but a
scant ten minutes at his disposal. He gave up the attempt therefore,
determining that when the celebration should be over he would move
forward with the crowd, trusting to his superior stature and energy
to keep him within sight of the woman he sought, until both he and she
could meet, either just within or just without the narrow entrance of
the church.

Very soon the moment of action came. The singing died away, the
benediction was given, the second Gospel was read, the priest and the
people repeated the Bohemian prayers, and all was over. The countless
heads began to move onward, the shuffling of innumerable feet sent
heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted space, broken every moment by the
sharp, painful cough of a suffering child whom no one could see in the
multitude, or by the dull thud of some heavy foot striking against the
wooden seats in the press. The Wanderer moved forward with the rest.
Reaching the entrance of the pew where she had sat he was kept back
during a few seconds by the half dozen men and women who were forcing
their way out of it before him. But at the farthest end, a figure
clothed in black was still kneeling. A moment more and he might enter
the pew and be at her side. One of the other women dropped something
before she was out of the narrow space, and stooped, fumbling and
searching in the darkness. At the minute, the slight, girlish figure
rose swiftly and passed like a shadow before the heavy marble monument.
The Wanderer saw that the pew was open at the other end, and without
heeding the woman who stood in his way, he sprang upon the low seat,
passed her, stepped to the floor upon the other side and was out in
the aisle in a moment. Many persons had already left the church and the
space was comparatively free.

She was before him, gliding quickly toward the door. Ere he could reach
her, he saw her touch the thick ice which filled the marble basin, cross
herself hurriedly and pass out. But he had seen her face again, and he
knew that he was not mistaken. The thin, waxen features were as those of
the dead, but they were hers, nevertheless. In an instant he could be by
her side. But again his progress was momentarily impeded by a number of
persons who were entering the building hastily to attend the next Mass.
Scarcely ten seconds later he was out in the narrow and dismal passage
which winds between the north side of the Teyn Kirche and the buildings
behind the Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses and towers cast deep
shadows below them, and the blackened houses opposite absorb what
remains of the uncertain winter's daylight. To the left of the church a
low arch spans the lane, affording a covered communication between the
north aisle and the sacristy. To the right the open space is somewhat
broader, and three dark archways give access to as many passages,
leading in radiating directions and under the old houses to the streets
beyond.

The Wanderer stood upon the steps, beneath the rich stone carvings which
set forth the Crucifixion over the door of the church, and his quick
eyes scanned everything within sight. To the left, no figure resembling
the one he sought was to be seen, but on the right, he fancied that
among a score of persons now rapidly dispersing he could distinguish
just within one of the archways a moving shadow, black against the
blackness. In an instant he had crossed the way and was hurrying through
the gloom. Already far before him, but visible and, as he believed,
unmistakable, the shade was speeding onward, light as mist, noiseless as
thought, but yet clearly to be seen and followed. He cried aloud, as he
ran,

"Beatrice! Beatrice!"

His strong voice echoed along the dank walls and out into the court
beyond. It was intensely cold, and the still air carried the sound
clearly to the distance. She must have heard him, she must have known
his voice, but as she crossed the open place, and the gray light fell
upon her, he could see that she did not raise her bent head nor slacken
her speed.

He ran on, sure of overtaking her in the passage she had now entered,
for she seemed to be only walking, while he was pursuing her at a
headlong pace. But in the narrow tunnel, when he reached it, she was
not, though at the farther end he imagined that the fold of a black
garment was just disappearing. He emerged into the street, in which he
could now see in both directions to a distance of fifty yards or more.
He was alone. The rusty iron shutters of the little shops were all
barred and fastened, and every door within the range of his vision was
closed. He stood still in surprise and listened. There was no sound to
be heard, not the grating of a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor the
fall of a footstep.

He did not pause long, for he made up his mind as to what he should do
in the flash of a moment's intuition. It was physically impossible that
she should have disappeared into any one of the houses which had their
entrances within the dark tunnel he had just traversed. Apart from the
presumptive impossibility of her being lodged in such a quarter, there
was the self-evident fact that he must have heard the door opened and
closed. Secondly, she could not have turned to the right, for in that
direction the street was straight and without any lateral exit, so that
he must have seen her. Therefore she must have gone to the left, since
on that side there was a narrow alley leading out of the lane, at some
distance from the point where he was now standing--too far, indeed, for
her to have reached it unnoticed, unless, as was possible, he had been
greatly deceived in the distance which had lately separated her from
him.

Without further hesitation, he turned to the left. He found no one
in the way, for it was not yet noon, and at that hour the people were
either at their prayers or at their Sunday morning's potations, and the
place was as deserted as a disused cemetery. Still he hastened onward,
never pausing for breath, till he found himself all at once in the
great Ring. He knew the city well, but in his race he had bestowed no
attention upon the familiar windings and turnings, thinking only of
overtaking the fleeting vision, no matter how, no matter where. Now, on
a sudden, the great, irregular square opened before him, flanked on the
one side by the fantastic spires of the Teyn Church, and the blackened
front of the huge Kinsky Palace, on the other by the half-modern Town
Hall with its ancient tower, its beautiful porch, and the graceful oriel
which forms the apse of the chapel in the second story.

One of the city watchmen, muffled in his military overcoat, and
conspicuous by the great bunch of dark feathers that drooped from his
black hat, was standing idly at the corner from which the Wanderer
emerged. The latter thought of inquiring whether the man had seen a lady
pass, but the fellow's vacant stare convinced him that no questioning
would elicit a satisfactory answer. Moreover, as he looked across the
square he caught sight of a retreating figure dressed in black, already
at such a distance as to make positive recognition impossible. In his
haste he found no time to convince himself that no living woman could
have thus outrun him, and he instantly resumed his pursuit, gaining
rapidly upon her he was following. But it is not an easy matter to
overtake even a woman, when she has an advantage of a couple of
hundred yards, and when the race is a short one. He passed the ancient
astronomical clock, just as the little bell was striking the third
quarter after eleven, but he did not raise his head to watch the
sad-faced apostles as they presented their stiff figures in succession
at the two square windows. When the blackened cock under the small
Gothic arch above flapped his wooden wings and uttered his melancholy
crow, the Wanderer was already at the corner of the little Ring, and
he could see the object of his pursuit disappearing before him into the
Karlsgasse. He noticed uneasily that the resemblance between the woman
he was following and the object of his loving search seemed now to
diminish, as in a bad dream, as the distance between himself and her
decreased. But he held resolutely on, nearing her at every step, round
a sharp corner to the right, then to the left, to the right again, and
once more in the opposite direction, always, as he knew, approaching
the old stone bridge. He was not a dozen paces behind her as she turned
quickly a third time to the right, round the wall of the ancient house
which faces the little square over against the enormous buildings
comprising the Clementine Jesuit monastery and the astronomical
observatory. As he sprang past the corner he saw the heavy door just
closing and heard the sharp resounding clang of its iron fastening. The
lady had disappeared, and he felt sure that she had gone through that
entrance.

He knew the house well, for it is distinguished from all others in
Prague, both by its shape and its oddly ornamented, unnaturally narrow
front. It is built in the figure of an irregular triangle, the blunt
apex of one angle facing the little square, the sides being erected on
the one hand along the Karlsgasse and on the other upon a narrow alley
which leads away towards the Jews' quarter. Overhanging passages are
built out over this dim lane, as though to facilitate the interior
communications of the dwelling, and in the shadow beneath them there is
a small door studded with iron nails which is invariably shut. The main
entrance takes in all the scant breadth of the truncated angle which
looks towards the monastery. Immediately over it is a great window,
above that another, and, highest of all, under the pointed gable, a
round and unglazed aperture, within which there is inky darkness. The
windows of the first and second stories are flanked by huge figures of
saints, standing forth in strangely contorted attitudes, black with the
dust of ages, black as all old Prague is black, with the smoke of the
brown Bohemian coal, with the dark and unctuous mists of many autumns,
with the cruel, petrifying frosts of ten score winters.

He who knew the cities of men as few have known them, knew also
this house. Many a time had he paused before it by day and by night,
wondering who lived within its massive, irregular walls, behind those
uncouth, barbarously sculptured saints who kept their interminable watch
high up by the lozenged windows. He would know now. Since she whom
he sought had entered, he would enter too; and in some corner of that
dwelling which had long possessed a mysterious attraction for his eyes,
he would find at last that being who held power over his heart, that
Beatrice whom he had learned to think of as dead, while still believing
that somewhere she must be yet alive, that dear lady whom, dead or
living, he loved beyond all others, with a great love, passing words.



CHAPTER II

The Wanderer stood still before the door. In the freezing air, his
quick-drawn breath made fantastic wreaths of mist, white and full of
odd shapes as he watched the tiny clouds curling quickly into each other
before the blackened oak. Then he laid his hand boldly upon the chain of
the bell. He expected to hear the harsh jingling of cracked metal, but
he was surprised by the silvery clearness and musical quality of the
ringing tones which reached his ear. He was pleased, and unconsciously
took the pleasant infusion for a favourable omen. The heavy door swung
back almost immediately, and he was confronted by a tall porter in dark
green cloth and gold lacings, whose imposing appearance was made still
more striking by the magnificent fair beard which flowed down almost to
his waist. The man lifted his heavy cocked hat and held it low at
his side as he drew back to let the visitor enter. The latter had not
expected to be admitted thus without question, and paused under the
bright light which illuminated the arched entrance, intending to make
some inquiry of the porter. But the latter seemed to expect nothing of
the sort. He carefully closed the door, and then, bearing his hat in one
hand and his gold-headed staff in the other, he proceeded gravely to the
other end of the vaulted porch, opened a great glazed door and held it
back for the visitor to pass.

The Wanderer recognized that the farther he was allowed to penetrate
unhindered into the interior of the house, the nearer he should be to
the object of his search. He did not know where he was, nor what he
might find. For all that he knew, he might be in a club, in a great
banking-house, or in some semi-public institution of the nature of a
library, an academy or a conservatory of music. There are many such
establishments in Prague, though he was not acquainted with any in which
the internal arrangements so closely resembled those of a luxurious
private residence. But there was no time for hesitation, and he ascended
the broad staircase with a firm step, glancing at the rich tapestries
which covered the walls, at the polished surface of the marble steps
on either side of the heavy carpet, and at the elaborate and beautiful
iron-work of the hand-rail. As he mounted higher, he heard the quick
rapping of an electric signal above him, and he understood that the
porter had announced his coming. Reaching the landing, he was met by a
servant in black, as correct at all points as the porter himself, and
who bowed low as he held back the thick curtain which hung before the
entrance. Without a word the man followed the visitor into a high room
of irregular shape, which served as a vestibule, and stood waiting to
receive the guest's furs, should it please him to lay them aside. To
pause now, and to enter into an explanation with a servant, would have
been to reject an opportunity which might never return. In such an
establishment, he was sure of finding himself before long in the
presence of some more or less intelligent person of his own class, of
whom he could make such inquiries as might enlighten him, and to whom he
could present such excuses for his intrusion as might seem most fitting
in so difficult a case. He let his sables fall into the hands of the
servant and followed the latter along a short passage.

The man introduced him into a spacious hall and closed the door, leaving
him to his own reflections. The place was very wide and high and without
windows, but the broad daylight descended abundantly from above through
the glazed roof and illuminated every corner. He would have taken the
room for a conservatory, for it contained a forest of tropical trees and
plants, and whole gardens of rare southern flowers. Tall letonias,
date palms, mimosas and rubber trees of many varieties stretched their
fantastic spikes and heavy leaves half-way up to the crystal ceiling;
giant ferns swept the polished marble floor with their soft embroideries
and dark green laces; Indian creepers, full of bright blossoms, made
screens and curtains of their intertwining foliage; orchids of every
hue and of every exotic species bloomed in thick banks along the walls.
Flowers less rare, violets and lilies of the valley, closely set and
luxuriant, grew in beds edged with moss around the roots of the larger
plants and in many open spaces. The air was very soft and warm, moist
and full of heavy odours as the still atmosphere of an island in
southern seas, and the silence was broken only by the light plash of
softly-falling water.

Having advanced a few steps from the door, the Wanderer stood still and
waited, supposing that the owner of the dwelling would be made aware
of a visitor's presence and would soon appear. But no one came. Then
a gentle voice spoke from amidst the verdure, apparently from no great
distance.

"I am here," it said.

He moved forward amidst the ferns and the tall plants, until he found
himself on the farther side of a thick network of creepers. Then he
paused, for he was in the presence of a woman, of her who dwelt among
the flowers. She was sitting before him, motionless and upright in a
high, carved chair, and so placed that the pointed leaves of the palm
which rose above her cast sharp, star-shaped shadows over the broad
folds of her white dress. One hand, as white, as cold, as heavily
perfect as the sculpture of a Praxiteles or a Phidias, rested with
drooping fingers on the arm of the chair. The other pressed the pages
of a great book which lay open on the lady's knee. Her face was turned
toward the visitor, and her eyes examined his face; calmly and with no
surprise in them, but not without a look of interest. Their expression
was at once so unusual, so disquieting, and yet so inexplicably
attractive as to fascinate the Wanderer's gaze. He did not remember that
he had ever seen a pair of eyes of distinctly different colours, the one
of a clear, cold gray, the other of a deep, warm brown, so dark as to
seem almost black, and he would not have believed that nature could so
far transgress the canons of her own art and yet preserve the appearance
of beauty. For the lady was beautiful, from the diadem of her red gold
hair to the proud curve of her fresh young lips; from her broad, pale
forehead, prominent and boldly modelled at the angles of the brows, to
the strong mouldings of the well-balanced chin, which gave evidence of
strength and resolution wherewith to carry out the promise of the high
aquiline features and of the wide and sensitive nostrils.

"Madame," said the Wanderer, bending his head courteously and advancing
another step, "I can neither frame excuses for having entered your house
unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence for my intrusion, unless you are
willing in the first place to hear my short story. May I expect so much
kindness?"

He paused, and the lady looked at him fixedly and curiously. Without
taking her eyes from his face, and without speaking, she closed the book
she had held on her knee, and laid it beside her upon a low table. The
Wanderer did not avoid her gaze, for he had nothing to conceal, nor any
sense of timidity. He was an intruder upon the privacy of one whom he
did not know, but he was ready to explain his presence and to make such
amends as courtesy required, if he had given offence.

The heavy odours of the flowers filled his nostrils with an unknown,
luxurious delight, as he stood there, gazing into the lady's eyes; he
fancied that a gentle breath of perfumed air was blowing softly over his
hair and face out of the motionless palms, and the faint plashing of the
hidden fountain was like an exquisite melody in his ears. It was good to
be in such a place, to look on such a woman, to breathe such odours, and
to hear such tuneful music. A dreamlike, half-mysterious satisfaction of
the senses dulled the keen self-knowledge of body and soul for one
short moment. In the stormy play of his troubled life there was a brief
interlude of peace. He tasted the fruit of the lotus, his lips were
moistened in the sweet waters of forgetfulness.

The lady spoke at last, and the spell left him, not broken, as by a
sudden shock, but losing its strong power by quick degrees until it was
wholly gone.

"I will answer your question by another," said the lady. "Let your reply
be the plain truth. It will be better so."

"Ask what you will. I have nothing to conceal."

"Do you know who and what I am? Do you come here out of curiosity, in
the vain hope of knowing me, having heard of me from others?"

"Assuredly not." A faint flush rose in the man's pale and noble face.
"You have my word," he said, in the tone of one who is sure of being
believed, "that I have never, to my knowledge, heard of your existence,
that I am ignorant even of your name--forgive my