s
locks are bushy, and black as a raven. His lips are most sweet; yea, he
is all desire. This is my beloved, and this is my brother, O daughters
of Jerusalem!..."

And now, fragrant with myrrh, she lay down upon her couch. Her face is
turned toward the window; her hands, like a child, she has squeezed
between her knees; her heart fills the room with its loud beating. Much
time passes. Scarce closing her eyes, she is plunged into dozing, but
her heart keeps vigil. As in a dream, it seems to her that her dear is
lying beside her. In a joyous fright she casts off her drowsiness; she
seeks her beloved near her on the couch, but finds no one. The moon's
design upon the floor has crept nearer the wall, is dwindled and more
oblique. The cicadas are calling; the Brook of Kidron babbles on
monotonously; the doleful chant of a night watchman is heard in the city.

"What if he comes not to-day?" thinks Sulamith; "I did implore him,--and
what if he hath suddenly obeyed me?... I charge you, O ye daughters of
Jerusalem, by the roses and lilies of the field: awake not love till it
come.... But now my love hath come to me. Make haste, my beloved! Thy
bride awaits thee. Make haste like to a young hart upon the mountains of
spices."

The sand crunches in the yard under light steps. And the soul of the
maiden deserts her. A cautious hand knocks at the window. A dark face
shows on the other side of the lattice. The low voice of her beloved is
heard:

"Open to me, my sister, my dove, my undefiled! For my head is filled
with dew."

But a charmed numbness has suddenly taken possession of Sulamith's body.
She wants to rise, and can not; wants to move her hand, and can not.
And, without understanding what is taking place with her, she whispers,
gazing through the window:

"Ah, his locks are filled with the drops of the night! But I have put
off my chiton. How shall I put it on?"

"Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. The morn is nigh, flowers
appear on the earth, and the vines with the tender grape give a goodly
smell; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the
turtle dove is heard from the mountains."

"I have washed my feet," whispers Sulamith; "how shall I defile them?"

The dark head disappears from the window-lattice; the resounding steps
pass around the house and cease at the door. The beloved cautiously puts
in his hand by the hole of the door. His fingers can be heard groping
for the inner bolt.