She rose and spoke rapidly, her heart's fire in her words! "Here the love of women is longer than their lives—greater than their prudence or their hope of heaven."
She stood erect before him, her beauty striving with the ardor of her words.
He looked down at her with a kind of fear in his eyes.
She took his hand in hers. "My father is fond of you," she continued.
"Shall I tell your future?"
"And I knew it for a moment hence I should know all," he answered; covering his eyes. She came near, and, caressingly, put an arm about his neck. He could hear a nightingale singing somewhere in the great palace. It seemed to fling open the gates of memory. He thought of his love—sacred now above all things. His fear of it was like as the fear of the gods had been to his fathers. For a moment honor, wisdom, and love trembled in the balance. Suddenly he stood erect and put his hand upon the shoulder of Salome and gently pushed her aside.
He turned away, his left arm covering his eyes and his right moving in a gesture of protest. He staggered as one drunk with wine. Slowly he crossed the chamber, struggling to defend his soul.
"I dare not look upon your face again," said he, sternly.
She ran before and tried to stop him. "Hear me, son of Varro," said she. "It is my will to help you."
"I will not look upon your face again," he repeated.
She struck at his hand fiercely, her foot stamping on the floor. Now was she of the catlike tribe of Herod.