night by the Capri sea. It was done;—he knew now that she gave him back some measure at least of that passion wherewith he adored her. She gave him love—she who had held it with so superb a disdain as the dalliance of fools, or the sensualism of libertines; she who used the whole power of its empire but as a weapon, a mask, a snare, a means scorned in itself for ends nearer her heart and worthier the consecration of her thoughts than she deemed that any single life could ever become to her. For the first time—whatever calumny might say, or vain jealousy upbraid her with—for the first time the softness of this passion had touched her, and its caress been given by her. She had made a slave of its madness many a time, or lashed it into fury when she needed, as the priestesses of oriental altars tamed or enraged the beasts which they crowned with flowers only, later on, to lead them out to sacrifice. That she would ever render it back, that she would ever feel to it other emotion than a half contemptuous compassion, had seemed impossible to her for so long. Moreover, when of late some sense of its tenderness had stolen on her, some echo in her own heart been awakened to the strong vibrations of his, she had known that the bonds which bound her could never be loosened, and she
