Her father raised her head and tilting her face looked into her eyes.
“No, Clarinda, you are not dead. You are not a corpse. The rooms are not decorated for your death. It is done for your rebirth. Only your youth is dead, and from it has sprung a new and wonderful thing.”
Clarinda rose from her knees and put her arms frantically around his neck.
“Save me! Save me! Father!” she pleaded. “Save me! You are wonderful!”
“Listen, Clarinda, you mustn’t weep. Rather you must be filled with joy, for this is a festival. You have come into something new. A great responsibility grasps you in its hand. You are re-born. Nature calls you and you go—it is inexorable—you cannot help. You must not weep; rather you must sing and dance. You must array yourself in gold and in silk and go forth to meet the bridegroom.”
“Is there no way?” she asked with pleading in her voice.
With terrible finality, he answered “No!”
Slightly she raised her body, a look of determination spread over her face, then a trace of a smile crept back. The tears were gone.
“Ah! how I fear,” she said. “And yet, Father, I love. I wouldn’t have it changed.” Clarinda paused for an instant. “It is true, Father, I weep, but my heart is filled with joy. I am ready to go forth into the darkness. I await the coming of the bridegroom.” Clarinda stretched her hands out in front of her. “I think, Father,” she said with conviction, “that he will protect me. I am not sure.”
She sank back close to the chair and held her father’s hand close to her face.