t,
out, upon the love that cannot trust! O Aranyani, surely thy love is
very small, and a mere imitation and counterfeit of love: for as a rule,
true love is tested by its power of putting faith in what it loves. See,
then, thou unbeliever, I will try to bring the future before thy very
eyes, and as I did before, when I told of the life that lay before thee
by thyself, so now will I paint for thee another picture, to show thee
an image of that life that thou wilt forfeit, by sending me away alone.

And he paused for a moment, as if reflecting on his coming words. But he
murmured to himself: I feel that she is hesitating, and trembling in the
balance; resembling a fruit that fears to fall, yet knows that its very
nature dooms it to be eaten, and is half inclined on that account to
drop of its own accord. And now, with a little shaking, she will drop
into my hand: since like a very woman, she cannot say either yes or no,
wishing to be forced along the path which all the while she longs, yet
is terribly afraid, to tread. And now then will I bait the hook with
flattery, and we shall see whether this golden fish will not swallow it
as greedily as all her silver sisters, resembling as they do delicate
and fragile foolish ware that sells itself in a market created by its
own vanity, where false coin passes easily without detection, and is
even more potent and valuable than true. And yet in her case, flattery
is very easy, for the grossest is only the simple truth.

And presently he said, in a very low voice: Aranyani, tell me: am I
beautiful? And she said, after a while, with her face hidden in his
breast: Why ask me to repeat what I have told thee in every way a
thousand times already? Then he said: And does it not occur to thee,
that thou givest me what I give thee? And so we are a pair, for if my
beauty is an idol to thee, what else is thine to me? But thou, all
ignorant of thy own extraordinary charm, art incredulous, not
understanding that I also am a devotee to the spell of thy dreamy eyes,
and the aromatic fragrance of thy hair, and the clinging prison of thy
soft round arms, and the taste of thy delicious lips, whose kisses cool,
like snowflakes, by their leaf-like half involuntary fall, the burning
caused by the touch of thy trembling breast, when it beats on my heart
like the surge of the sea. And should we separate, that were made for
one another like Maheshwara and the Daughter of the Snow? Nay, we will
rather gro