She tortured the open heart of him even as he turned to her. And she
was tortured herself. It may have been her will was stronger. She felt,
with horror, as if he tore at the bud of her heart, tore it open, like
an irreverent persistent being. Like a boy who pulls off a fly's wings,
or tears open a bud to see what is in the flower, he tore at her
privacy, at her very life, he would destroy her as an immature bud,
torn open, is destroyed.
She might open towards him, a long while hence, in her dreams, when she
was a pure spirit. But now she was not to be violated and ruined. She
closed against him fiercely.
They climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to see the
sunset. In the finely breathing, keen wind they stood and watched the
yellow sun sink in crimson and disappear. Then in the east the peaks
and ridges glowed with living rose, incandescent like immortal flowers
against a brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world was
a bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation, hovered a rosy
transport in mid-air.
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