"On my bed in the night
I looked for him,
For him whom my soul loveth,
I sought him and did not find him."
Stepping out of the coffin, Dio moved towards the sun. She began the dance slowly and quietly, as though in her sleep; there was still something of the stiffness of death in her limbs. But as the sun rose higher the dance grew quicker and more impetuous. Her head was thrown back, her arms were stretched towards the sun; the white veils fell on the purple carpet, revealing the innocent body, neither masculine nor feminine—at once masculine and feminine—a marvel of godlike beauty. The sun was kissing her and she was surrendering herself to it, the mortal uniting with the god as a bride with her lover.
"Put me as a seal upon thine heart,
"As a ring upon thine hand
For strong as death is love,"
sobbed the flute.
The song stopped suddenly; the dancer fell flat on her back as though dead. One of the priestesses ran up to her and covered her with the white grave clothes.
The soft sound of footsteps and a voice that seemed familiar, though she had never heard it, reached Dio's ears. She raised her head and saw the king face to face. He was saying something to her but she could not make it out. She looked into his face eagerly as though recognising him after a long, long parting: this was perhaps how lovers recognised each other in the world beyond the grave.
She recalled her fear of him and was surprised not to be feeling any. A simple, quite a simple, face like anybody else's; the face of the son of man, the brother of man, gentle, very gentle like the face of the god whose name is Quiet Heart.
"Are you very tired?" he was asking, probably not for the first time.
"No, not very."
"How well you danced! Our dancers can't do it. Is this your Cretan dance?"