But the flame of her is scorching the feeble lover; feebly he pleads, resists, begs pardon for the harsh words he has given her, yields, struggles . . . yields again at last, for hers is all the force of body and of soul: it is his part to be consumed in her—
"I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now!
This way? Will you forgive me—be once more
My great queen?"
Glorious in her victory, she demands that the hair which she had loosed in the moment of recalling their wild joys he now shall bind thrice about her brow—
"Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress,
Magnificent in sin. Say that!"
So she bids him; so he crowns her—
"My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress,
Magnificent . . ."
—but ere the exacted phrase is said, there sounds without the voice of a girl singing.
"The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in his heaven—
All's right with the world!"
(Pippa passes.)