"My possessions are pitiable," I said, "but they are all yours. I give all to save him."
"Fool, fool!" she cried. "I have no need of gear. If I but raise my hand, all the riches of the world fall to me. Tis not what I wish for."
Into her eyes came such a glitter as the moon makes on the moist skin of a sleeping snake. The firmness of her lips relaxed; they grew child-like in their softness. The atmosphere became almost tangible: I could scarce breathe.
"What is it? All that I can do, if it be no sin."
"Come with me to my loom," she said, "and if you do the thing I desire you shall see him. There is no evil in't—in past times kings have sighed for the same."
So I followed slowly to the loom, before which she had seated herself, and watched her deftly passing crimson thread over crimson thread.
She was silent for a space, and in that space her beauty fascinated me, so that I was no longer master of myself.
"What you wish for I will give, even if it be life."
The loom ceased. "A kiss of the mouth, and you shall see him who passed in the night."
She clasped her arms about my neck and pressed my lips. For one moment heaven and earth ceased to be; but there was one paradise, where we were sole governours. . . . .
Then she moved back and drew aside the web and shoved me the head of my Master, and the bleeding heart whence a crimson cord unravelled into many threads.
"I wear men's lives," the woman said. "Life is necessary to me, or even I—who have existed from the beginning—must die. But yesterday I feared the end, and he came. His soul is not dead—'tis truth that it plays with my culvers."
I fell
