nd breasts are
paradise, her charm is potent beyond all charm that has ever dazzled men;
and, as the pole willy-nilly draws the needle, just so, willy-nilly, does
she draw men_.

Woman has made me laugh at death and distance, scorn fatigue and sleep. I
have slain men, many men, for love of woman, or in warm blood have
baptized our nuptials or washed away the stain of her favour to another.
I have gone down to death and dishonour, my betrayal of my comrades and
of the stars black upon me, for woman's sake--for my sake, rather, I
desired her so. And I have lain in the barley, sick with yearning for
her, just to see her pass and glut my eyes with the swaying wonder of her
and of her hair, black with the night, or brown or flaxen, or all golden-
dusty with the sun.

For woman _is_ beautiful . . . to man. She is sweet to his tongue, and
fragrance in his nostrils. She is fire in his blood, and a thunder of
trumpets; her voice is beyond all music in his ears; and she can shake
his soul that else stands steadfast in the draughty presence of the
Titans of the Light and of the Dark. And beyond his star-gazing, in his
far-imagined heavens, Valkyrie or houri, man has fain made place for her,
for he could see no heaven without her. And the sword, in battle,
singing, sings not so sweet a song as the woman sings to man merely by
her laugh in the moonlight, or her love-sob in the dark, or by her
swaying on her way under the sun while he lies dizzy with longing in the
grass.

I have died of love. I have died for love, as you shall see. In a
little while they will take me out, me, Darrell Standing, and make me
die. And that death shall be for love. Oh, not lightly was I stirred
when I slew Professor Haskell in the laboratory at the University of
California. He was a man. I was a man. And there was a woman
beautiful. Do you understand? She was a woman and I was a man and a
lover, and all the heredity of love was mine up from the black and
squalling jungle ere love was love and man was man.

Oh, ay, it is nothing new. Often, often, in that long past have I given
life and honour, place and power for love. Man is different from woman.
She is close to the immediate and knows only the need of instant things.
We know honour above her honour, and pride beyond her wildest guess of
pride. Our eyes are far-visioned for star-gazing, while her eyes see no
farther than the solid earth beneath her feet, the lover's breast upon
he