“Loved him—in the names of all the gods! Oh, Iole! Iole! Iole!”
“——The thrush singing in darkness; the voice of spring calling, calling me to his arms! Oh, Iole, Iole!—these, and my soul and his, alone under the pagan moon! alone, save for the old gods whispering in the dusk——”
“——And listening, I heard the feathery tattoo of wings close by—the wings of Eros all aquiver like a soft moth trembling ere it flies! Peril divine! I understood it then. And, stirring in darkness, sweet as the melody of unseen streams, I heard the old gods laughing.... Then I knew.”
“Is that all, little sister?”
“Almost all.”
“What more?”
And when, at length, the trembling tale was told, Iole caught her in her white arms, looked
at her steadily, then kissed her again and again.
“If he is all you say—this miracle—I—I think I can make them understand,” she whispered. “Where is he?”
“D-down-stairs—at b-bay! Hark! You can hear George swearing! Oh, Iole, don’t let him!”