But the days that followed dragged on frightfully, for they were filled with a rising pathos and plaintiveness in Simeon’s voice,—with increasing supplication and entreaty. It rose to an ever louder appeal for pity, an ever more languishing cry for love. The air in Beruriah’s room became difficult for her to breathe and she began to seek calm in long walks and frequent visits, but she was haunted by the sensation that there in her room resounded Simeon’s yearning, imploring voice. And the voice followed her into the distant streets, walked with her into the strangers’ houses, took part in all her conversations. Returning to her home became for Beruriah a trial. She could not bear to listen to the voice; she feared it, and feared even more an accidental meeting with him, for the far-off gaze of his eyes, which had now become quite black, gleamed with such desire and love-entreaty that it was impossible for a human soul to bear it. She awaited the Sabbath eve with a throbbing bosom. The approach of the holy day brought her no pleasure. Her first thought was to have notified him that she was ill and could not come to table. But her second thought was that Beruriah, the wife of Rabbi Mayer, should not resort to pretexts, or hide from any one. What, indeed, was Simeon to her? What mattered to her the unrest of his heart? She should never have noticed the quality of his voice or the colour of his eyes. And if he should ask again whether she had remarked his glances, she would reply that she did not wish to be questioned so, since his glances were of no concern to her. Let him better ask of Rabbi Mayer whether he might inquire of her about his glances. And thus she remained to hear his Sabbath blessings and his Sabbath songs. But his voice no longer rang with its Sabbath tones. It was like a melodious violin that had cracked. He thanked God and blessed Him, but as one who _must_ thank and _must_ bless, and whose heart is not in his deeds, because he is discontent and wronged. He ate, too, as one who compels himself, without appetite, against his will and sparingly. His cloud-grey eyes looked less at the food before him than at Beruriah, and his glances were Desire itself,—Yearning itself. And when, in the darkness of the night, there began to resound through the house verses from the Song of Songs, in a voice as of doves cooing, like the cry of a heart dissolving in desire, Beruriah laid her pillow upon her head and placed her fingers in her ears, and her heart began to beat most rapidly. She knew that the verses were meant for her, were sent to her, spoke to her, longed for her, implored her. And as she lay, she spoke to her heavy heart: