For Zenaide, sinking slowly to her knees, bent her head upon her hands, and Oman saw two or three bright tears run through her fingers and fall to the floor. Her frame was shaken and convulsed with ill-restrained sobs. After gazing at her for a moment, Oman, unable to judge of the sincerity of her pose, went on more quietly: “Thou hast confessed to love the ruler of his people, a man standing in the eyes of men for all that is upright—more than upright. And now thou callest upon me, his servant, a lover of truth, to condone thy sin. How couldst thou think thus of me?” “No—no! Listen! Not to condone—” she lifted her head, and he perceived that her face was stained and distorted with real grief. “Not to condone. I sent for thee because, despairing—” she gave a little convulsive sob—“despairing of bringing his love to me, I long to cure myself of the malady. Thou art wise. I wish to learn wisdom of thee. Thou art good. So I also would be. Bha—Bhavani has sought to teach me wisdom, to teach me strength. But I—could never learn but love from him. O stern—O wise one—cast me not away! Help me, and I will honor thee all my days!” Her pleading was eloquent because it was sincere. Her voice was not smooth. The words were forced out like sobs; and in them Oman read the struggle she had endured before she sent for him. Her abandon showed this, indeed; for, had he not been her final hope, she would never have laid her soul bare before him in her stress. And seeing all these things, his anger was softened, and he was moved to some sort of feeling, less pity than sympathy. Kneeling beside her as she still crouched upon the floor, he soothed her a little, and raised her up, and led her, unresisting, to the divan, where he caused her to sit down. Then, himself taking her former place upon the cushions, he began to talk. His voice was low and smooth, and flowed along monotonously. At first he cared not so much what he said, as that his manner should quiet her. In this he succeeded. And when he saw her, forgetful of her tears, sit up and lean forward, listening to him, he took up a text on which he had never spoken before—on which he had scarcely permitted himself to meditate, yet concerning which all knowledge seemed to be stored away in his heart and brain. It was the ceaseless, rebellious yearning of woman for man, of man for woman: that insistent, unreasoning desire that has caused chaos in the world. Of himself and his own abnormal struggles, he did not speak. But it was from them that he drew his words:—the words that Zenaide knew to be expressive of universal truth. For some time Oman talked broadly on this theme; and then, waiving generalities, he continued: