Fair Cyros in the furnace stands,
Chanting the song of cherubim.
Green grass is growing at his feet,
Bestarred with florets blue and sweet.
He feels no fire, but with them plays,
His garment like the sun ablaze.
Tichon too was gazing at the fire, and it seemed to him he recognised the song’s celestial flowers in the blue heart of the flames. Blue as the sky they seemed to promise an inexpressible blessedness; yet to reach that heaven the red flame had to be passed through.
Suddenly Sophia turned to him, laid her hand on his, brought her face so close to his that he felt her breath come and go, ardent and passionate, like a kiss, and began to whisper in a persuasive murmur:—
“Together, together, we will burn, my brother, my beloved! Alone I fear it; with you it will be easy! Together we will go to the marriage feast of the Lamb.”
She repeated with infinite tenderness in her voice, “We will burn, we will burn!” Across her pale face, and in her black eyes, which reflected the glow of the flames, again there flitted that ancient, wild expression, which he had felt in her song near the Round Lake.