rait. It had
fallen dead, like a candle after sunrise; it followed me with eyes of
paint. I knew it to be like, and marvelled at the tenacity of type in
that declining race; but the likeness was swallowed up in difference. I
remembered how it had seemed to me a thing unapproachable in the life, a
creature rather of the painter's craft than of the modesty of nature,
and I marvelled at the thought, and exulted in the image of Olalla.
Beauty I had seen before, and not been charmed, and I had been often
drawn to women, who were not beautiful except to me; but in Olalla all
that I desired and had not dared to imagine was united.

I did not see her the next day, and my heart ached and my eyes longed
for her, as men long for morning. But the day after, when I returned,
about my usual hour, she was once more on the gallery, and our looks
once more met and embraced. I would have spoken, I would have drawn near
to her; but strongly as she plucked at my heart, drawing me like a
magnet, something yet more imperious withheld me; and I could only bow
and pass by; and she, leaving my salutation unanswered, only followed me
with her noble eyes.

I had now her image by rote, and as I conned the traits in memory it
seemed as if I read her very heart. She was dressed with something of
her mother's coquetry and love of positive colour. Her robe, which I
knew she must have made with her own hands, clung about her with a
cunning grace. After the fashion of that country, besides, her bodice
stood open in the middle, in a long slit, and here, in spite of the
poverty of the house, a gold coin, hanging by a ribbon, lay on her brown
bosom. These were proofs, had any been needed, of her inborn delight in
life and her own loveliness. On the other hand, in her eyes that hung
upon mine, I could read depth beyond depth of passion and sadness,
lights of poetry and hope, blacknesses of despair, and thoughts that
were above the earth. It was a lovely body, but the inmate, the soul,
was more than worthy of that lodging. Should I leave this incomparable
flower to wither unseen on these rough mountains? Should I despise the
great gift offered me in the eloquent silence of her eyes? Here was a
soul immured; should I not burst its prison? All side considerations
fell off from me; were she the child of Herod I swore I should make her
mine; and that very evening I set myself, with a mingled sense of
treachery and disgrace, to captivate the brother. Perhaps I r