"Dead; the poor little beetle! Do you know what death is, Gnulemah?"
"It is what makes life. The sun dies every night, to get life for the morning. And trees die when cold comes, so as to smile out in green leaves again,—greener than if there had been no death. So it is with all things."
"Not with everything," said Balder, taking her light-heartedness very gravely. "That gold beetle in your hand is dead, and will never live or move again."
But at that Gnulemah smiled; and bringing her hand, with the beetle in it, near her perfect lips, she lent it a full warm breath,—enough to have enlivened an Egyptian scarabæus,—and behold! the beetle spread its wings and whizzed away. Before Balder could recover from this unexpected refutation, the lovely witch followed up her advantage.
"You thought, perhaps, that Hiero was as dead as the little beetle; but he lives more beautifully in you!"
He looked startled up, his large eyes glittering blackly in the paleness of his face. Gnulemah, with the serenity of a victorious disputant willing to make allowances, continued,—
"It may be different in the outside world from which you come; but here death ends nothing, but makes life new and strong."
After a silence of some duration, poor Balder renewed his attack from another quarter.
"What would you think of one who put to death a creature you loved?"
She smiled, and shook her glowing pendants.