He could no longer restrain his curiosity.
“Do you speak of one who is dead, Lilith?” he asked—“One whom I knew——”
“I speak of one who is living,”—she replied—“and one whom you know. For none are dead; and Knowledge has no Past, but is all Present.”
Her voice sank into silence. El-Râmi bent above her, studying her countenance earnestly—her lashes trembled as though the eyelids were about to open,—but the tremor passed and they remained shut. How lovely she looked!—how more than lovely!
“Lilith!” he whispered, suddenly oblivious of all his former forebodings, and unconscious of the eager passion vibrating in his tone—“Sweet Lilith!”
She turned slightly towards him, and, lifting her arms from their indolently graceful position on the pillows, she clasped her hands high above her head in apparent supplication.
“Love me!” she cried, with such a thrill in her accent that it rang through the room like a note of music—“Oh my Belovëd, love me!”
El-Râmi grew faint and dizzy,—his thoughts were all in a whirl, ... was he made of marble or ice that he should not respond? Scarcely aware of what he did, he took her clasped hands in his own.
“And do I not, Lilith?” he murmured, half anguished, half entranced—“Do I not love you?”
“No, no!” said Lilith with passionate emphasis—“Not me,—not me, Myself! Oh my Belovëd! love Me, not my Shadow!”