ad,
And the musk of the rose is blown."

He read on to the end. When he stopped he hoped she would not
speak; he felt by anticipation the jar of her clear cold voice. But
she did not speak. Her face was in the shadow, but he could see
without turning his head that her bosom heaved and heaved. She was
touched,--she understood. With a rush came a thought that the splendid
song symbolized their relation. It was he who stood at the gate,
alone, and called her out from "the dancers dancing in tune." He had
almost wearied of calling, but she heard,--at last she heard!

"There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, She is near,'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait!'"

There was silence a while in the room; then he moved very gently and
looked in her face. There was a smile on her lips, and her eyes were
closed. She was asleep.

He left her there and went out. It was cold and still; the stars
glittered, the earth was white. He walked far on the frozen snow, with
a feeling as hard and cold as the bitter air. Some impish sprite
seemed to mock him with the closing strain of the song:

"She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red."

All the charm had gone out of the words. Were such passionate
yearnings actual, or at best more than empty delusions? He had yearned
so toward her; she had been "his life, his fate." His fate, truly, but
was she not rather his death? What kind of creature was it that words
like those could not move? She cast a blight upon the noblest things,
made him doubt and disbelieve where before he had walked with firm
feet. And she was his fate; he was bound to her by his own hand. She
sat there now by his table, and there she would sit and sit. The
picture made his house seem a prison. He must go back there by and by.
The thought of living at variance was very bitter to him, yet how
could they prevent it who had nothing in common, whose instincts drew
opposite ways. He was unequally yoke