“Is it really a last term? Is it truly a goal of human existence? Have I then passed through the other three chambers only to stop in this one? And shall I, shall I ever be able to leave it if I lie in it a whole night in the attitude of love which is the prostration of the tomb.” But Chrysis speaks. “Well-Beloved, you asked for me; I am come, look at me well . . .” She raises her two arms together, lays her hands upon her hair, and, with her elbows projecting in front of her, smiles. “Well-Beloved, I am yours . . . Oh! not immediately . . . I promised you to sing, I will sing first . . .” And he thinks of her no more, and lays him down at her feet. She has little black sandals. Four threads of blue pearls pass between the dainty toes, on the nails of which has been painted a carmine lunar crescent. With her head reposing on her shoulder, she taps on the palm of her left hand with her right, and undulates her hips almost imperceptibly. “By night, on my bed, I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. . . . . I charge ye, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, If ye find my beloved, Tell him That I am sick of love.” “Ah! it is the Song of Songs, Demetrios. It is the nuptial canticle of the women of my country.” “I sleep, but my heart waketh: It is the voice of my beloved . . . That knocketh at my door, The voice of my beloved! He cometh, Leaping upon the mountains Like a roe Or a young hart.” “My beloved speaks, and says unto me: Open unto me, my sister, my fair one: My head is filled with dew, And my locks with the drops of the night. Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away. For lo, the winter is past, The rain is over and gone, The flowers appear on the earth. The time of the singing of birds is come, The voice of the turtle-dove is heard in the land. Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away.” She casts her veil away, and stands up arrayed in some tight-fitting stuff wound closely round the legs and hips. “I have put off my coat; How shall I put it on? I have washed my feet: How shall I defile them? My well-beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, And my bowels were moved for him. I rose up to open to my beloved, And my hands dropped with myrrh, And my fingers with sweet-smelling myrrh, Upon the handles of the lock. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! She throws her head back and half closes her eyelids. “Stay me, comfort me, For I am sick of love. Let his left hand be under my head And his right hand embrace me. Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, with one of thine eyes, With one chain of thy neck. How fair is thy love! How fair are thy caresses! How much better than wine! The smell of thee pleaseth me more than all spices. Thy lips drop as the honeycomb: Honey and milk are under thy tongue. The smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.” “A garden enclosed is my sister, A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.