"Well, then, forget! Why try in vain?" I said.
She smiled and seated herself, leaning a little forward, looking upon the ground.
"Soothfastness must,"' she said very gravely, raising her long black eyebrows; "yet truly it must be a forlorn thing to be remembered by one who so lightly forgets. So then I say, to teach myself to be true—'Look now, Criseyde, yonder fine, many-hearted poplar—that is Paris; and all that bank of marriage-ivy—that is marriageable Helen, green and cold; and the waterless fountain—that truly is Diomed; and the faded flower that nods in shadow, why, that must be me, even me, Criseyde!'"
"And this thick rosemary-bush that smells of exile, who, then, is that?" I said.
She looked deep into the shadow of the cypresses. "That," she said, "I think I have forgot again."
"But," I said, "Diomed, now, was he quite so silent—not one trickle of persuasion?"
"Why," she said, "I think 'twas the fountain was Diomed: I know not. And as for persuasion; he was a man forked, vain, and absolute as all. Let the waterless stone be sudden Diomed—you will confuse my wits, Mariner; where, then, were I?" She smiled, stooping lower. "You have voyaged far?" she said.
"From childhood to this side regret," I answered rather sadly.
"'Tis a sad end to a sweet tale," she said, "were it but truly told. But yet, and yet, and yet—you may return, and life heals every, every wound. I must look on the ground and make amends. 'Tis this same making amends men now call 'Purgatory,' they tell me."
"'Amends,'" I said; "to whom? for what?"