And he said: “Love.”
“How may the bound give freedom?”
“With the gift of love.”
“The spirit of the gift lies only in the giver.” Her voice was mournful and low.
He was confused and cast down. “You humble me with words, but words are nothing, beautiful one. Put on your collar of onyx, and fasten your breastknots of beryl. Have I not griefs, fierce griefs, that crash upon my brain, and frenzies that shoot in fire! Does not your voice—that rest-recovering lure—allay them, your presence numb them! I cannot let you go, I cannot let you go.”
“He who woos and does not win,” so said Flaune, “wins what he does not woo for.”
“Though I beg but a rose,” murmured the King, “do you offer me a sword?”
“Time’s sword is laid at the breast of every rose.”
“But I am your lowly servant,” he cried. “You have that which all secretly seek and denyingly long for; it is seen without sight and affirmed without speech.”
“What is the thing you seek and long for?”