"So you still wear the scarab ring--I've seen it before. But where is
your veil with the gold stars? I did love you once--worshipped--reverenced
your maidenly purity--your brave truthfulness but--that love is dead
--crushed--crushed beneath red wheels, and I would to God I were dead with
it. No--if you please, don't touch me--by your leave I will sit--and
beg you to excuse me. I--would be alone."
"Ah, Peregrine--beloved, you are crying too!"
"Indeed yes. I grieve that I am not dead."
"But why--why would you be dead, my own?"
"Because--O Diana--I cannot help but--love you after all. And now,
pray go--I beseech you, leave me ere the devil break loose and I speak
the unforgivable thing ... Go, I entreat!"
With some such hysterical words as these and blinded by a gush of
weak, unmanly tears, I sent her from me, unheeding alike her piteous
entreaties and the clasp of her imploring hands. When she was gone I
sank into my chair and suffered my tears to flow unchecked, while the
blackbird voiced the agony of loss and disillusionment.
CHAPTER VIII
THE DEEPS OF HELL
Your Heroes of Romance from time immemorial have generally been large
men, more or less handsome, superlatively strong, void of all fear,
stalwart of body and steadfast of mind; moreover, being singled out by
a hard fate to endure much and often, they suffer, unflinchingly and
uncomplainingly, to extremity, like the heroes they are.
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