vanquishing the sinking flame of the evening, Sulamith let her eyes rest
upon a bright, bluish star that trembled meekly and tenderly.

"What is that star called, my beloved?" she asked.

"That is the star Sopdit," answered the king. "It is a sacred star.
Assyrian magi tell us that the souls of all men dwell upon it after the
death of the body."

"Dost thou believe it, my king?"

Solomon made no reply. His right hand was under Sulamith's head, and his
left did embrace her; and she felt his aromatic breath upon her,--upon
her hair, upon her temple.

"Mayhap we shall see each other there, my king, after we have died?"
asked Sulamith uneasily.

The king again kept silence.

"Give me some answer, beloved," timidly implored Sulamith.

Whereupon the king said:

"Brief is the life of man, but time is without end, and matter hath no
death. Man dieth and maketh the earth fertile with the corruption of his
body; the earth nourisheth the blade; the blade bringeth forth grain;
man consumeth bread, and feedeth his body therewith. Multitudes, and
multitudes upon multitudes, of ages shall pass; all things in the
universe repeat themselves,--men, beasts, stones, plants,--all repeat
themselves. In the multiform vortex of time and matter we, too, are
repeated, my beloved. It is just as true as that, if thou and I were to
fill a large bag up to the top with sea gravel, and were to cast therein
but one precious sapphire,--though we were to take pebbles out of the bag
many, many times, we still would, sooner or later, draw out the precious
stone as well. Thou and I will meet, Sulamith, nor shall we know each
other; but our hearts, with rapture and yearning, will strive to meet,
for thou and I have already met,--my meek, my fair Sulamith,--though we
remember it not."

"Nay, my king, nay! I remember. When thou didst stand beneath the window
and didst call to me: 'My fair, come out, for my locks are filled with
the drops of the night!' I knew thee, I remembered thee; and fear and
joy possessed my heart. Tell me, my king,--tell me, Solomon: if I were,
say, to die on the morrow, wouldst thou recall thy swarthy maiden of the
vineyard, thy Sulamith?"

And the king, pressing her to his breast, whispered in emotion:

"Never speak thus.... Speak not thus, O Sulamith! Thou art chosen of God,
thou art the veritable one, thou art the queen of my soul.... Death
shall not touch thee...."

The strident sound of brass suddenly soared over Je