_Vav._ (_shrinking from it_). It is unholy lore! Oh, burn it, Mousta! _Mous._ Burn it? No, not I! See what I am--dwarfed, twisted, and deformed! I have a fancy to be tall and straight-- _This volume teaches me to have my will._ My only eyeball flashes from its pit Like a red snake trapped in a sunken snare-- I do not like my eye. As I’ve but one, I’d have it large and bright. _This teaches me To make it so._ My mouth is coarsely cut-- I like a tempting mouth--a mouth that smiles-- A mouth that’s smiled upon. _This teaches me To make it so._ I will not burn this book! _The LADY HILDA has entered during the last line._ _Hil._ And what would’st _thou_ with beauty? _Mous._ What would I? Why, lady, look around; the isle is fair: Its feathery palms that tower towards the sky, Its prattling brooks that trickle to the sea, Its hills and dales, its sea and sky--are fair: The beasts that dwell upon it, and the birds That fly above it--even they are fair: And, beyond all, the ladies who have made This isle their chosen home are very fair! And what am I? Why, lady, look at me! I am the one foul blot upon its face: I am the one misshapen twisted thing In this assemblage of rare loveliness: I am the one accursed discord in This choir of universal harmony! Is this, think you, a proud pre-eminence? Or, rather, is it not a red-hot brand That stamps its damning impress on one’s heart, And changes man to devil before his time! (_Sadly._) Ah! you are mocking me! _Hil._ (_kindly_). I mock thee not. We maidens all (save one) have dearly loved, And those we loved have died. We, broken hearts, Knit by the sympathy of kindred woe, Have sought this isle far from the ken of man; And having loved, and having lost our loves, Stand pledged to love no living thing again. Thou art our trusted servant and our friend; The only man of all the world of men Whom we admit upon our virgin shores. We know thee, and we trust thee, Mousta--Come, This thought might soften harder hearts than thine!