"That is true?" she said, suddenly, at length.
"It is a saint's story in substance; it is true in spirit for all time."
Her breath came with a sharp, swift, panting sound. She was blinded with the new light that broke in on her.
"If I be a woman, shall I, then, be such a woman as that?"
Arslàn rested his eyes on her with a grave, half-sad, half-sardonic smile.
"Why not? You are the devil's daughter, you say. Of such are men's kingdom of heaven!"
She pondered long upon his answer; she could not comprehend it; she had understood the parable of his narrative, yet the passion of it had passed by her, and the evil shut in it had escaped her.
"Do, then, men love what destroys them?" she asked, slowly.
"Always!" he made answer, still with that same smile as of one who remembers hearkening to the delirious ravings round him in a madhouse through which he has walked—himself sane—in a bygone time.
"I do not want love," she said, suddenly, while her brain, half strong, half feeble, struggled to fit her thoughts to words. "I want—I want to have power, as the priest has on the people when he says, 'Pray!' and they pray."