The Worshipper of the Image

by Richard Le Gallienne

"Shall I tell you the reason, Antony?"

"Yes."

"It was because I saw in your eyes a thought of Beatrice. For a moment your thoughts had forsaken me and gone to pity Beatrice. I saw it in your eyes."

"Poor Beatrice!" said Antony. "It is little indeed I give her. Could you not spare her so little, Silencieux?"

"I can spare her nothing. You must be all mine, Antony—your every thought and hope and dream. So long as there is another woman in the world for you except me, I cannot be yours in the depths of my being, nor you mine. There must always be something withheld. It will never be perfect, until—"

"Until when?"

"Until, Antony,"—and Silencieux lowered her voice to an awful whisper,—"until you have made for me the human sacrifice."

"The human sacrifice!"

"Yes, Antony,—all my lovers have done that for me. They were not really mine till then. Some have brought me many such offerings. Antony, when will you bring me the human sacrifice?"

"O Silencieux!"