more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, than
an old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman who
might be his granddaughter? Is he not like a hoary old owl, who leaves
his mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the evening
star, or screech out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?"

"Very like," said Unorna with a laugh.

"And yet--my evening star--dear star of my fast-sinking evening--golden
Unorna--shall I be cut off from love because my years are many? Or
rather, shall I not love you the more, because the years that are left
are few and scantily blessed? May not your dawn blend with my sunset and
make together one short day?"

"That is very pretty," said Unorna, thoughtfully. He had the power of
making his speech sound like a deep, soft music.

"For what is love?" he asked. "Is it a garment, a jewel, a fanciful
ornament which only boys and girls may wear upon a summer's holiday? May
we take it or leave it, as we please? Wear it, if it shows well upon our
beauty, or cast it off for others to put on when we limp aside out of
the race of fashion to halt and breathe before we die? Is love beauty?
Is love youth? Is love yellow hair or black? Is love the rose upon the
lip or the peach blossom in the cheek, that only the young may call it
theirs? Is it an outward grace, which can live but so long as the other
outward graces are its companions, to perish when the first gray hair
streaks the dark locks? Is it a glass, shivered by the first shock
of care as a mirror by a sword-stroke? Is it a painted mask, washed
colourless by the first rain of autumn tears? Is it a flower, so tender
that it must perish miserably in the frosty rime of earliest winter? Is
love the accident of youth, the complement of a fresh complexion, the
corollary of a light step, the physical concomitant of swelling pulses
and unstrained sinews?"

Keyork Arabian laughed softly. Unorna was grave and looked up into his
face, resting her chin upon her hand.

"If that is love, if that is the idol of your shrine, the vision of your
dreams, the familiar genius of your earthly paradise, why then, indeed,
he who worships by your side, and who would share the habitation of
your happiness, must wear Absalom's anointed curls and walk with Agag's
delicate step. What matter if he be but a half-witted puppet? He is
fair. What matter if he be foolish, faithless, forgetful, inconstant,
changeable as the tide of the sea? He