He thought he felt once more the soft touch of the woman's hands, that he saw the glowing flower of her lips, the soft yielding figure, the white arms, the rippling fair hair, the tiny feet, and he stood still clasping his hands over his burning eyes.
Why had he not torn the bandage from her brow, and pressed his lips upon that tempting mouth, crushing it beneath his own? Indeed he had been a fool! And no doubt it was thus she considered him, and was now deriding his memory amongst those shameless guests who crowded around her tables; those tables that were bending under the weight of the costly dishes, and where the brilliant poppies were shedding their petals as they faded and drooped amongst hundreds of lighted candles.
Eric groaned in his distress; he longed to go back before that golden throne and tell the beautiful woman that he hated her ... hated her!...
But now he must escape—but why was the moon so bright? Why could he not find his way to the snow-white hall, and from there, over the deep water, past the mysterious well, out into the wide world once more?
Why did his head ache and throb? Why did his throat feel dry with ill-contained sobs? What had come to him? Never had he felt thus.
All the sweet peace of his soul had been replaced by waves of unknown sensations and desires; and beneath it all, that burning pain at his heart, that unsatisfied yearning for something he could not grasp.
The moon flooded everything in a hard, merciless light; he ran from place to place seeking an issue, only to find everywhere blank walls to stop him. He knew that he was losing his head, the blood beat in his temples, his eyes could no more clearly see.... With a stifled cry of distress he dropped down, and all became dark around him.
X
For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.