“I saw them through a window as I came. How could I mistake them? There is not their like in the world. But now, my oath redeemed, it is for you to say if I am to destroy them.”
“O, my hair!” she wept; “my one beauty!”
“I have staked all on this,” he cried. “If your hair was your one beauty, my beard alone redeemed me from appalling ugliness by so much as it hid of me. Well, I have lost on both counts, if the net result is your hatred.”
She looked up, with drowned bewildered eyes, and held out her hand blindly.
“Give me back my hair,” she said, “and you shall have the hundred pounds.”
“Nay, sweet Delilah,” quoth he; “for that would be to return you your strength, and I want you weak.”
Her arm dropped to her side.
“That you may insult me with impunity!” she said bitterly.
“Ah, Delilah!” he cried; “is it so bad, that the offer of my hand and heart is an insult to a woman?”
She sank back, sitting on her heels. From under her cap, fallen awry, curled shavings of gold hung out—the residue of a squandered wealth. Her eyes were wide with amazement.