“Surely, thou must be lonesome, all alone in thy vineyard?”
“Nay, I work, I sing.... At noon food is brought me, and at evening one of my brothers relieves me. At times I dig for the roots of the mandragora, that look like little mannikins.... The Chaldæan merchants buy them from us. It is said they make a sleeping potion out of them.... Tell me, is it true that the berries of the mandragora help in love?”
“Nay, Sulamith, only love can help in love. Tell me, hast thou a father or a mother?”
“Only a mother. My father died two years ago. My brethren are all older than I,—they are from the first marriage; only my sister and I have sprung from the second.”
“Is thy sister as comely as thou?”
“She is little. She is but nine.”
The king laughs quietly, embraces Sulamith, draws her to him, and whispers into her ear:
“Therefore, she hath no such breast as thine? A breast as proud, as warm?...”
She is silent, burning with shame and happiness. Her eyes glow and grow dim, with the mist of a happy smile over them. The king feels the riotous beating of her heart within his hand.
“The warmth of thy garments hath a goodlier smell than myrrh, than nard,” he is saying, avidly touching her ear with his lips. “And when thou breathest, the smell of thy nostrils is like that of apples unto me. My sister, my beloved, thou hast ravished my heart with one glance of thy eyes, with one chain of thy neck.”