aye, beloved, until the mother forsaketh her son hanging
on the highest tree, will I love thee--and after that _forever_! For
is not our God love? And is not God eternal?"

"Ah, Mary! Mary! The mystery of Love! Love is Life. He hath not
known life who hath not felt the creative energy of the universe
throbbing, breathing in his soul which love bringeth--aye, love of a
woman. And yet--yet there be some, eunuchs which were so born: there
be eunuchs which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs which
have made themselves eunuchs for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake." The
last words were spoken by the young Rabbi as if to himself. He lifted
his face to the moonlight for the moment and something like a sigh
escaped his half closed lips. Then he turned again to the woman.

"Mary--beloved, there is a cup which each of us must drink. The cup
that Life hath given me to drink hath ofttimes been filled with the
bitterness of want, with loneliness and heart hunger. But knowledge of
thy love doth overrun it with exceeding sweetness so that all suffering
seems as naught. Blessed be the God that hath turned thy heart to me."

Again they sat silent in the shadows of the olive tree for a few
moments. Then Mary spoke slowly and softly.

"To be here--just here alone with thee! Better than heaven it is to
hear thy voice, to feel the pressure of thy hand and to know that the
throbbing of thy heart is for Mary. Thou makest my soul to dwell in
groves of myrrh; to wander on mountains of frankincense and to feed in
valleys of lilies. Though every drop of water in the fountain, though
every silver leaf on Olivet were the tongue of a Levite shouting
praise, this were faint singing beside the hosannahs of my heart
because I am my beloved's and he is mine! This were enough--enough!
Let the cup of Life be what it may! Henceforth thy cup be my cup."

"Knowest thou what thou sayest, woman? Doth thy heart know?"

"Yea, my heart knoweth. Where thou goest I will go. Thy lot shall be
my lot. Thy dwelling shall be my dwelling whether cave or palace. Thy
pillow shall be my pillow whether crimson wool or stone. Thy joy shall
be my joy. Thy poverty shall be my poverty and my riches, thy riches.
Thy danger shall be mine. Thy suffering shall be mine and whether come
victory or defeat, this shall be ours together!"

"If victory cometh by way of that which men call 'death,' couldst thou
see victory in this?"

"Speak not of de