up my hand, laying it in
her bosom, moaning and mourning over it, with dove-like sounds. They
were not words that came to her, they were sounds more beautiful than
speech, infinitely touching, infinitely tender; and yet as I lay there,
a thought stung to my heart, a thought wounded me like a sword, a
thought, like a worm in a flower, profaned the holiness of my love. Yes,
they were beautiful sounds, and they were inspired by human tenderness;
but was their beauty human?

All day I lay there. For a long time the cries of that nameless female
thing, as she struggled with her half-witted whelp, resounded through
the house, and pierced me with despairing sorrow and disgust. They were
the death-cry of my love; my love was murdered; it was not only dead,
but an offence to me; and yet, think as I pleased, feel as I must, it
still swelled within me like a storm of sweetness, and my heart melted
at her looks and touch. This horror that had sprung out, this doubt upon
Olalla, this savage and bestial strain that ran not only through the
whole behaviour of her family, but found a place in the very
foundations and story of our love--though it appalled, though it shocked
and sickened me, was yet not of power to break the knot of my
infatuation.

When the cries had ceased, there came a scraping at the door, by which I
knew Felipe was without; and Olalla went and spoke to him--I know not
what. With that exception, she stayed close beside me, now kneeling by
my bed and fervently praying, now sitting with her eyes upon mine. So
then, for these six hours I drank in her beauty, and silently perused
the story in her face. I saw the golden coin hover on her breaths; I saw
her eyes darken and brighten, and still speak no language but that of an
unfathomable kindness; I saw the faultless face, and, through the robe,
the lines of the faultless body. Night came at last, and in the growing
darkness of the chamber the sight of her slowly melted; but even then
the touch of her smooth hand lingered in mine and talked with me. To lie
thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the beloved, is to
re-awake to love from whatever shock of disillusion. I reasoned with
myself; and I shut my eyes on horrors, and again I was very bold to
accept the worst. What mattered it, if that imperious sentiment
survived; if her eyes still beckoned and attached me; if now, even as
before, every fibre of my dull body yearned and turned to her? Late on
in the ni