Sometimes she resolved to go
out like the Rose of Sharon and seek her beloved in the city and
throw herself at his feet, making him a royal gift of all he claimed
of her.
She little knew her own wilful heart. She had seen the world bow to
every caprice of hers, but she never had one principle to guide her,
except her own pleasure. She was now like a goddess of earth,
fallen in an effort to reconcile impossibilities in human hearts,
and became the sport of the powers of wickedness.
She lay upon the floor senseless, her hands in a violent clasp. Her
glorious hair, torn and disordered, lay over her like the royal robe
of a queen stricken from her throne and lying dead upon the floor of
her palace.
It was long after midnight, in the cold hours of the morning, when
she woke from her swoon. She raised herself feebly upon her elbow,
and looked dazedly up at the cold, unfeeling stars that go on
shining through the ages, making no sign of sympathy with human
griefs. Perseus had risen to his meridian, and Algol, her natal
star, alternately darkened and brightened as if it were the scene of
some fierce conflict of the powers of light and darkness, like that
going on in her own soul.
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