child of hell; now she came back up the steep path. . . .
Her penance-garb she had borrowed. But the thistles tore her foot, and pale from pain and suffering, from wounded feet, and ever-smarting shoulders, and a soul that burned continually, was her face, that peeped out from under her wide hood.
Up, up, she went, supporting herself with her staff. . . .
Oh, the voice of her father, of Eros, in her dream, when the grape-dance was over! Then repentance had begun. Then she had fled through the wood, through the wild beasts. And the lion had licked her foot, and the tigress had allowed her to rest in the warm lair of her whelps. . . .
Then she went on, climbing higher and higher. . . .
Would she never get to the top? Would the castle, the Babel of pinnacles, the town of towers remain ever inaccessibly high in the clouds?
Her step left blood behind on the rocky stone.
But she did not rest. Rest did not help her.
