And through the swimming tumult of their senses the thrush’s song rang like a cry. The moon had risen.
[ XVII]
ounting the deadened stairway noiselessly to her sister’s room, groping for the door in the dark of the landing, she called: “Iole!” And again: “Iole! Come to me! It is I!”
The door swung noiselessly; a dim form stole forward, wide-eyed and white in the electric light.
Then down at her sister’s feet dropped Aphrodite, and laid a burning face against her silken knees. And, “Oh, Iole, Iole,” she whispered, “Iole, Iole, Iole! There is danger, as you say—there is, and I understand it ... now.... But I love him so—I—I have been so happy—so happy! Tell me what I
have done ... and how wrong it is! Oh, Iole, Iole! What have I done!”
“Done, child! What in the name of all the gods have you done?”