She had denied him once too often, it seems. Here was a sudden attack, a
trick of the sprites. She held her breath, she trembled, her breast
heaved, she shut her eyes, and her lips relaxed their hold of each other.
"Not yet, my blessed one, not yet!" and "Come, Rose of the World!" Thus
they murmured to each other and strove. An expectancy, the shiver and
thrill of it, possessed her; she seemed to feel the touch of a beloved
hand, which drew her, trembling and panting, closer and closer to some
high experience of which she had never dreamed before, to the expression
of inexpressible things, to a giving of the utmost, to a wild strife of
emulation which of them two should give the most. The dark was all about
them like a bed--and closer he drew her, and closer yet. For one wild
moment that endured--O heaven, they two in love under the stars! He was of
the Open Country--as free as the wind. Thus he would love her, if he ever
loved. Tristan's crying would be his--and Isolde's whimper of hurt would
be her answer. Thus, if ever, she might be loved. And then, if ever in
this world, peace!
Shivering still, with the sense of an arm still about her, of wild breath
beating on her cheek, she looked wonderfully out at the stars which had
seen her possessing.
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