The Romance of a Water-Lily. 101

 

simple flute, who is it who hath brought me to this pass?
Ah, Salome, you surely may forgive! See, I pray you
have pity. I love you! I love you! I love you!”

His voice trembled still, and it was as music—it was
as soft-as music, and his eyes were as molten fire ;
but they did not melt Salome.

For in her bosom beat no gentle soul, and she did
not understand her lover. In her own way she loved
him well, as a strong-willed peasant maiden can love
a handsome youth; but she was proud—proud as,
perhaps, no maiden but a Swiss maiden is apt to be,
and the word “coward,” even had it only been
whispered in connection with one she fancied, would
have been as a lash across her own cheek.

“What!” said she, in low and scathing tones, face
and lips white with anger, “you come here fawning
and cringing to me for pity now? I might have
thought it: there is no spirit in you. No wonder I
am the laughing-stock of the village. Go! I have
told you it is not with me you have to deal. It is
with my father.”