"Ay, that did I, when I washed off the convent. But my name is Sarah."
"Nay, not Sarah, but Saraï—my Princess!" His voice was hoarse and faltering. This strange new sense of romance that, like a callow-bird, had been stirring in his breast ever since he had heard of her quest of him, spread its wings and soared heavenwards. She had been impure—but her impurity swathed her in mystic seductiveness. The world's law bound her no more than him—she was free and elemental, a spirit to match his own; purified perpetually by its own white fire. She came nearer, and her eyes wrapped him in flame.
"My Prince!" she cried.
He drew backward towards the divan. "Nay, but I must know no woman."
"None but thy true mate," she answered. "Thou hast kept thyself pure for me even as I have kept myself passionate for thee. Come, thou shalt make me pure, and I will make thee passionate."
He looked at her wistfully. The cool plash of the fountain was pleasant in the silence.
"I make thee pure!" he breathed.
"Ay," and she repeated softly:—
"'Pure and white as the snows,
Melisselda.'"
"Melisselda!" he whispered.