And they held him and fascinated him and paralysed
him, like those of a snake.
"I do not know men?" she said softly. "You think not, Paul?"
But Paul could hardly speak, he buried his face in her lap, like a
child, and kept it there, kissing her gloved hands. His straw hat,
with its Zingari ribbon, lay on the grass beside him, and a tiny shaft
of sunlight glanced through the trees, gilding the crisp waves of his
brushed-back hair into dark burnished gold.
The lady moved one hand from his impassioned caress, and touched the
curl with her finger-tips. She smiled with the tenderness a mother
might have done.
"There--there!" she said. "Not yet." Then she drew her hand away from
him and leant back, half closing her eyes.
Paul sat up and stared around. Each moment of the day was providing
new emotions for him. Surely this was what Columbus must have felt,
nearing the new world. He pulled himself together. She was not angry
then at his outburst, and his caress--though something in her face
warned him not to err again.
"Tell me the rest," he said pleadingly. "Why did he not value Undine's
love, and what made the fool throw it away?"
"Because he possessed it, you see," said the lady. "That was reason
enough, surely."
Then she told him of the ceasing of Undine's wayward moods after she
had received her soul--of her docility--of her tenderness--of
Huldebrand's certainty of her love.
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