Endora fell, her face lying on the stony floor. He heeded her not, but, with a face as death-like as that of the witch, glanced down the lines of the tablet.
Then, with a moan such as is heard when the weary storm tells its sad tale through the cypress-trees, he sat down and buried his face in his hands.
For some time he remained in the same position, until a sigh came from the prostrate woman.
He arose and went towards her, saying:
'Whatever may be thy sins, in this I am the sinner for bruising thee.'
He gave her wine, damped her furrowed, fevered brow, raised her from the floor, and watched by her until she had fully regained consciousness.
She murmured:
'I do not blame thee. Were I a man, I would have done likewise. Endora pities thee. Thou hast wedded a snake, and she has stung thee. What wilt thou do?'
'Charge her.'
'And should she deny?'