The answer rang out like a silver clarion, with something full and triumphant in the sound, as though not only Lilith’s voice had uttered it, but other voices had joined in a chorus. At the same moment, her hands moved, as if in an effort to escape from his hold. But he held them closely in a jealous and masterful grasp.
“When will you come to me, Lilith?” he demanded in low but eager accents—“When shall I see you and know you as Lilith? ... my Lilith, my own for ever?”
“God’s Lilith—God’s own for ever!” murmured Lilith dreamily, and then was silent.
An angry sense of rebellion began to burn in El-Râmi’s mind. Summoning up all the force of his iron will, he unclasped her hands and laid them back on each side of her, and placed his own hand on her breast, just where the ruby talisman shone and glowed.
“Answer me, Lilith!” he said, with something of the old sternness which he had used to employ with her on former occasions—“When will you come to me?”
Her limbs trembled violently as though some inward cold convulsed her, and her answer came slowly, though clearly—
“When you are ready.”
“I am ready now!” he cried recklessly.
“No—no!” she murmured, her voice growing fainter and fainter—“Not yet ... not yet! Love is not strong enough, high enough, pure enough. Wait, watch and pray. When the hour has come, a sign will be given—but O my Belovëd, if you would know me, love Me—love Me! not my Shadow!”
A pale hue fell on her face, robbing it of its delicate tint,—El-Râmi knew what that pallor indicated.