in them. You
met her somewhere about Carinthia, and gave her the name? You write--may
I refer to the book?'

He received the book and flew through the leaves:

'Here--"A panting look": you write again: "A look of beaten flame: a
look of one who has run and at last beholds!" But that is a living face:
I see her! Here again: "From minute to minute she is the rock that loses
the sun at night and reddens in the morning." You could not create an
idea of a woman to move you like that. No one could, I am certain of
it, certain; if so, you 're a wizard--I swear you are. But that's a
face high over beauty. Just to know there is a woman like her, is an
antidote. You compare her to a rock. Who would imagine a comparison of
a woman to a rock! But rock is the very picture of beautiful Gorgon,
haggard Venus. Tell me you met her, you saw her. I want only to hear she
lives, she is in the world. Beautiful women compared to roses may whirl
away with their handsome dragoons! A pang from them is a thing to be
ashamed of. And there are men who trot about whining with it! But
a Carinthia makes pain honourable. You have done what I thought
impossible--fused a woman's face and grand scenery, to make them
inseparable. She might be wicked for me. I should see a bright rim round
hatred of her!--the rock you describe. I could endure horrors and not
annihilate her! I should think her sacred.'

Woodseer turned about to have a look at the man who was even quicker
than he at realizing a person from a hint of description, and almost
insanely extravagant in the pitch of the things he uttered to a
stranger. For himself, he was open with everybody, his philosophy not
allowing that strangers existed on earth. But the presence of a lord
brought the conventional world to his feelings, though at the same time
the title seemed to sanction the exceptional abruptness and wildness of
this lord. As for suspecting him to be mad, it would have been a common
idea: no stretching of speech or overstepping of social rules could
waken a suspicion so spiritless in Woodseer.

He said: 'I can tell you I met her and she lives. I could as soon swim
in that torrent or leap the mountain as repeat what she spoke, or sketch
a feature of her. She goes into the blood, she is a new idea of women.
She has the face that would tempt a gypsy to evil tellings. I could
think of it as a history written in a line: Carinthia, Saint and Martyr!
As for comparisons, they are flowers thrown