In my late madness I had often pictured the scene: how I should hold her throbbing beauty in my arms, my senses clouded with the fragrance of her, and how, in burning words, I should pour out the litany of my passion.

But to the gods it seemed otherwise.

No Quaker maiden's betrothal kiss was chaster.
Cold grew the fever in my veins and the litany died on my lips.
Who and what is she whom I love?
There have been days when her eyes have carried in their depths the allurements of a sorceress, when her limbs have woven Venusberg enchantments which it has taken all my strength to withstand.

But tonight, when I take the greatest step and claim her as mine till our lives' end, she yields with the complaisance of an ignorant child and raises up between us the barrier of her innocence.
When shall I learn the soul of her?
Well, _jacta est alea_.

The events of to-night have precipitated our destiny.