There was a pause, one of those rare intervals when ears are opened to the music of the spheres, and souls may meet.
"You are not happy here," he said.
Her glorious eyes were two blossoms heavy with dew.
"Friend!" She put out one hand, groping for something to hold. "I am miserable."
They stood together, hand in hand.
"She struck you."
There was no answer. Divine pity dropped upon his heart, sweet and dangerous pity out of heaven.
"Stay a little," she whispered. "For the sake of your religion, stay. If for a day only, stay. Stay, for a woman's sake."
It was dark in the grove outside the circle of the fire. He drew at her fingers. He bent his head suddenly and breathed upon them. She placed her other hand—a cold little hand—upon his.
Then the evening breeze flung itself sportingly into the trees, and all the branches sprang before it, and the foliage danced and shouted in a laugh, singing noisily the old secret of the river reeds, singing, "Midas is a king of gold—a king of gold."