To her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium, she wanted to gather the
glowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die. He saw them, saw they
were beautiful. But there arose no clamour in his breast, only a
bitterness that was visionary in itself. He wished the peaks were grey
and unbeautiful, so that she should not get her support from them. Why
did she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the glow of
the evening? Why did she leave him standing there, with the ice-wind
blowing through his heart, like death, to gratify herself among the
rosy snow-tips?
'What does the twilight matter?' he said. 'Why do you grovel before it?
Is it so important to you?'
She winced in violation and in fury.
'Go away,' she cried, 'and leave me to it. It is beautiful, beautiful,'
she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones. 'It is the most beautiful thing I
have ever seen in my life. Don't try to come between it and me. Take
yourself away, you are out of place--'
He stood back a little, and left her standing there, statue-like,
transported into the mystic glowing east.
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