Again he was silent. She felt that she had no hold upon his heart or
mind, seeing that he was not even disturbed by her repeated efforts.
"Are you a stone, that you do not know what love is?" she cried,
grasping his hand in hers and looking with desperate eyes into his face.
"I do not know what love is," he answered, slowly.
"Then I will tell you what love is," she said, and she took his hand and
pressed it upon her own brow.
The Wanderer started at the touch, as though he would have drawn back.
But she held him fast, and so far, at least, he was utterly subject to
her. His brow contracted darkly, and his face grew paler.
"Read it there," she cried. "Enter into my soul and read what love is,
in his own great writing. Read how he steals suddenly into the sacred
place, and makes it his, and tears down the old gods and sets up his
dear image in their stead--read how he sighs, and speaks, and weeps,
and loves--and forgives not, but will be revenged at the last. Are you
indeed of stone, and have you a stone for a heart? Love can melt even
stones, being set in man as the great central fire in the earth to burn
the hardest things to streams of liquid flame! And see, again, how very
soft and gentle he can be! See how I love you--see how sweet it is--how
very lovely a thing it is to love as woman can. There--have you felt it
now? Have you seen into the depths of my soul and into the hiding-places
of my heart? Let it be so in your own, then, and let it be so for ever.
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