ng came into his mind, and the
sweet, sad melody vibrated in his soul.

From her bath she arose,
Pure and white as the snows,
Melisselda.
Coral only at lips
And at sweet finger-tips,
Melisselda.

His eyes filled with tears--the divine dreams of youth stirred faintly
within him.

"Is it Peace with thee?" she asked.

His head drooped again on his breast.

"From the casement I saw the sun rise over the Maritza," he said,
"kindling the sullen waters, but my faith is still gray and dead. Nay,
rather there came into my mind the sublime poem of Moses Ibn Ezra of
Granada: 'Thy days are delusive dreams and thy life as yon cloud of
morning: whilst it tarries over thy tabernacle thou may'st remain
therein, but at its ascent thou art dissolved and removed unto a place
unknown to thee,' This is the end, Melisselda, the end of my great
delusion. What am I but a man, with a man's pains and errors and
self-deceptions, a man's life that blooms but once as a rose and fades
while the thorn endures?" The ineffable melancholy of his accents
subdued her to silence: for the moment the music of his voice, his sad
brooding eyes, the infinite despair of his attitude swayed her to a
mood akin to his own. "Verily it was for me," he went on, "that the
Sephardic poet sang--

"'Reflect on the labor thou didst undergo under the sun, night and
day, without intermission; labor which thou knowest well to be without
profit; for, verily in these many years thou hast walked after vanity
and become vain. Thou wast a keeper of vineyards, but thine own
vineyard thou hast not kept; whilst the Eyes of the Eternal run to and
fro to see if the vine hath flourished, whether the tender grapes
appear, and, lo! all was grown over with thorns; nettles had covered
the face thereof. Thou hast grown old and gray, thou hast strayed but
not returned.' Yea, I have strayed, but is the gate closed for return?
To be a man--only a man--how great that is!" His voice died away, and
with it the sweet, soothing spell. Fire glowed in Melisselda's breast,
heaving her bosom, shooting sparks from her eyes.

"Nay, if thou art only a man, thou art not even a man. My love is
dead."

As he shrank beneath her contempt, another stanza of his ancient song
sang itself involuntarily in his brain. Never had he seen her thus.

In the pride of her race,
As a sword shone her face,
Melisselda.
And her l