A long lifetime; long as his own; that long life in which he had seen, had felt, so much.
For as he waited for her inevitable death, his mind had followed that long life of his own, year after year, day after day, hour after hour. And everywhere it had seen a woman's eyes, a woman's soul, looking back from a soul, from eyes, that should have been a man's.
Yes! the keynote of that long life had been the love of a woman. Passionate love, absorbing mind as well as body, claiming its reward in kind; as such love always does.
In kind!
There lay the whole difference between anathema and beata. They were both karma, or desire!
One of the girl's white feet slid with a silvery jingle of its anklet to the next step, and, as he replaced it to a more comfortable position, a chill struck to his heart as he remembered what such chiming had meant in the past history of the world. The measure which that provoked was--anathema. That--disguised, palliated, refined in a thousand ways--was one kind.
And the other?
The memory of his own past surged to his brain as he bent over the girl's whitening face and scanned it narrowly. How like the face was to that other one, now that coming death had sharpened the full, youthful curves. He had noticed the likeness often--it had been clear when Laila had worn the old Italian--Beatrice's--dress. But not so clear, not half so clear, as when in this--this almost shameless one--she had said--"I only want--him."
It might have been Margherita speaking,--Margherita, who had wanted a man's soul.
And she had had one.