She came near, and, caressingly, put an arm about
his neck. He could hear a nightingale singing somewhere in the great
palace. It seemed to fling open the gates of memory. He thought of
his love--sacred now above all things. His fear of it was like as the
fear of the gods had been to his fathers. For a moment honor, wisdom,
and love trembled in the balance. Suddenly he stood erect and put his
hand upon the shoulder of Salome and gently pushed her aside.
He turned away, his left arm covering his eyes and his right moving in
a gesture of protest. He staggered as one drunk with wine. Slowly he
crossed the chamber, struggling to defend his soul.
"I dare not look upon your face again," said he, sternly.
She ran before and tried to stop him. "Hear me, son of Varro," said
she. "It is my will to help you."
"I will not look upon your face again," he repeated.
She struck at his hand fiercely, her foot stamping on the floor. Now
was she of the catlike tribe of Herod.
"Go, stupid fool!" The words came hissing from her lips.
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