He gave a little cry. And then, suddenly, before he could move or speak, she had sat up swiftly, and whipped her arms about his neck, and pulled him to the couch beside her. ’Listen,’ she urged—’nay, thou shalt not go. I hold thy weakness in a vice. Struggle, and I will tighten it. Listen, child, while I tell thee a child’s tale. It is about a huntsman that followed a voice; and he pushed into a thicket, and lo! enchantment seized him beyond. And he whispered amazed, "What is this?" and the voice answered, "Love—the end to all thy hunting." O! little huntsman of Nature, be content. Thou hast traced the voice of thy long longing to its home.’ She repaid his struggles with kisses, his wild protests with honeyed words. He set his pretty teeth at her, and she pouted her mouth to them; he hurled insult at her head, and she bore the sweet ache of it for the sake of the lips that bruised. When he desisted, exhausted, she would get in her soft pleas, rebuking him with a tearful meekness:— ’Ay, scourge me, set thy teeth in me, only hate me not. Shalt find me but the tenderer, being whipped. Talk on of Nature. Is it not natural to want to be loved; and, for a woman, in a woman’s way?’ ’Forbear!—O, wicked! O, thou harlot!’ he panted, still fighting with her. ’Lie still! So a sick infant quarrels with its food,’ she answered. ’O love—dear love, will you not hear reason?’ ’Reason!’ he stormed. ’O, thou siren! to beguile me here on that lying pretext, and thus shame me for my trust!’ ’No lie,’ she pleaded. ’Thou shalt have the ring indeed.’ ’At thy price? I will die first.’ ’Bernardo!’ ’_Thou_ to talk of natural love! False to it; false to thy lord; false even to thy stained bed! Unhand me! Why, I loathe thee.’ ’Not yet.’ Her eyes were hot waters, all misted over with passion. ’Thou canst not indeed, so pitiful to the worst. I cry to thee in my need. I knew thee first. Bernardo! will you forsake your friend?’ ’Friend!’ ’Ay. Only tell me what you would do with the ring?’ ’What but return it to her that trusted me with it,’ ’And for what reward?—Nay, strive not.’ ’My conscience’s peace—just that. Unclasp thy hands.’ ’See there! Her gratitude would kill it in thee for ever. As would be hers to thee, so be thine to me. Art thou for a fall? Fall soft, then, on my love. She will not let thee down so kindly, who hath a lord and duchy to consider.’ He made a supreme effort—her robe tore in his hand—and, breaking from her, stood panting and disordered. She made no effort to recapture him, but, flinging herself to abandonment, sobbed and sighed. ’O, I am undone! Wilt thou forsake me? Kill me first! Nay, I will not let thee go!’ She sprang to her feet. He leapt away from her. ’Beast!’ he cried, ’that foulest our garden! I will have thee whipped out of Milan with a bow-string.’ Scorn and hatred flashed into her face. She was no longer Venus, but Ashtoreth, the goddess of unclean frenzy.