“Words, words; how sad, because so beautiful, yet so vain!”
“Oh Rizpah,” cried the knight, too anxious to be angry, though the woman’s words were stinging, “thy looks startle me! Pray God to rest and hold thy worried soul.”
“Pray? I have tried, often of late, to pray, but I do not know how. I fear thou hast stolen even that power from me! Ugh! the last time I prayed, my words seemed like black cormorants rising with loads of carrion; then falling struck dead by the sun, into great black caves, such as abound in our Lejah hell! I heard my words flung back at me in mockery. Pray? I dare not, lest God strike me dead for a hypocrite and a heretic!”
“But my poor, dear wife,” soothingly said Sir Charleroy, “He is merciful.”
“Oh, yes, to the good and the faithful; I’m neither! I gave Him up for a man, as the Adamish men gave him up for women. I madest thou my God, and now have none other; for He of the heavens is very holy, but very jealous!”
“Rizpah, Rizpah, do not thus give way to these wild imaginations.”
“Give way? Alas, all is already given away; soul and body were on an idolatrous altar long ago. I’m buried in the ashes!”
“But Rizpah, trust my love: I’ll help thee back to peace and usefulness.”
“Bah! the masculine great I——”
“Heavens! woman, is there any love in a heart that so hurls javelins?”