“No, no!” Reading the scorn in his tone, she came forward swiftly and sank down in the cushions at his feet. “Think not that of me. I know something of thy creed. Bhavani has expounded it to me. I have considered it, carefully. But it is very pitiless. Thinkest thou not it is pitiless to the weak? Wouldst thou leave no sweetness in life?” Her eyes lifted themselves to him searchingly, and he felt the spell of her magnetism.
Shaking himself free from the impression, he looked down upon her with a quizzical calmness that disconcerted her. “What wouldst thou of me, Zenaide?” he asked.
Again, overcome by her nervousness, she rose and began to pace up and down before him. “Nothing.—Nothing,” she answered; but her words did not indicate a pause. For a moment or two she walked, but finally faced him, frankly. “Is love—true love—so ignoble, then?”
Oman, taken aback, did not immediately answer. Then, many memories overcoming him, he cried out painfully: “Unless it be lawful, yes. Surely yes!”
“Lawful! Love hath no law save itself.”
Oman’s lip curled. “Doubtless thou knowest more of it than I. Wherein am I to help thee? Hast thou left this love of thine? Return, then, to the land where he dwells.”
Zenaide listened, and a far-away look came into her eyes. She was standing now with her back against a stone pillar, and, as she began to speak, Oman felt himself gradually fascinated by the perfection of her beauty and by the abandon of her manner, which, in the beginning, had been held in restraint, but grew more and more impassioned as, carried out of herself by her own emotion, she forgot everything but her theme.
“The land of my love—lies here, Oman. I came out of the east, seeking love, journeying through broad countries. To many I brought happiness, but I found it never for myself. Then came I to Mandu. And here, in a breath, I knew that it awaited me. My soul was lighted as by a torch; and I am still consumed by its increasing flame. I love. And him I love rejects me. I, the priestess of love, am unloved! Am I so ugly?—so old?—so young?—so ignorant? Am I surpassed by another? I, Zenaide, consumed with fire and tears, pour out all my wealth on him, and he knows it not. Daily he looks on my face, hears my voice, reads mine eyes, and still I am not known. Oh, my beloved—adorable—transcendent—Bhavani—”
She stopped short. Her passion had carried her beyond herself. She had more than betrayed, she had proclaimed, her secret. But now, suddenly brought back to consequences, all her force died, and she stood trembling, fearful, before Oman, whose face was stern and angry. There was silence for a long, pulsating moment, while Zenaide realized that the teacher of men had become her judge. Oman, indeed, felt his anger growing within him, and presently gave it voice:
“Hast thou dared to defile the purest of men with thy love? Hast thou known him, lived near him for more than two years, seen all the strength of his white soul, and still dreamed he could so dishonor himself and thee? Shame to thee! Thou hast, moreover, sullied him in the eyes of his people; for many say what is false, that he yielded long ago to thine eyes and thy red-dyed hair. He has housed thee like a queen. He has paid thee greater honor than if, indeed, he loved thee. Shame, then, woman, for thy thoughts! Shame to thee!—What—thou weepest!”