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He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile--to
try and resolve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed
him,--a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that certainly
moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is
always more or less ashamed when Love, with a single effort, proves him
to be weaker than a blade of grass swaying in the wind. What! all his
dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light
touch of a mere willow wand? for the very sake of his own manhood and
self-respect, he cannot help but be ashamed! It is as though a little
nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's strength, and made him a
helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the god Eros begins his
battles, which end in perpetual victory,--first fear and shame,--then
desire and passion,--then conquest and possession. And afterwards? ah!
. . . afterwards the pagan deity is powerless,--a higher God, a grander
force, a nobler creed must carry Love to its supreme and best
fulfillment.


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