CHAPTER XXVII. THE NOTE-BOOK CONTINUED NYMPH AND SATYR.
And the satyr? Ah! I knew him at a glance, despite the elegant modern boots used to disguise the cloven foot.
He wore black broadcloth and snowy linen, too, and a broad-brimmed clerical hat. His face was seraphically pale, but I saw (or fancied I saw) the twinkle of the hairy ears of the ignoble, sensual, nymph-compelling, naiad-pursuing breed.
He was talking earnestly, with gestures of eager entreaty; for the nymph was crying, and he was offering her some kind of consolation.
Presently he sat down by her side, and threw his arms around her. She disengaged herself from his embrace, and rose trembling to her feet.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “That is all over now. I cannot bear it!”
He rose also, and stood regarding her, not with the rapturous eyes’ of a lover, but with a dark and gloomy gaze. Then he said, in a low voice, something which I could not catch. But I heard her passionate reply.
“No, it is all over,” she cried; “and I shall never be at peace again. Even, if you kept your word, it would be the same. You do not love me; you never loved me—never!”
I crept a little closer, for I was anxious to hear his answer.