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touches its heart, it dies from the blossom down to the
root.”
“No, love is like the herb named the rose of Jericho. In
the dry months it withers and curls up, but when there is a
soft and balmy night, with a heavy fall of dew, all its leaves
will unfold again, greener and fresher than ever before.”
“It may be so. There are many kinds of love in the
world.”
“Truly there are, and ours was such a love.”
“That yours was such you tell me now, but mine—never,
never!”
“Then you have never loved.”
“Never loved? Now I shall tell you how I have loved.
It was at Frederiksborg—”
“Oh, madam, you have no mercy!”
“No, no, that is not it at all. It was at Frederiksborg.
Alas, you little know what I suffered there. I saw that your
love was not as it had been. Oh, as a mother watches over
her sick child and marks every little change, so I kept watch
over your love with fear and trembling, and when I saw
in your cold looks how it had paled, and felt in your kisses
how feeble was its pulse, it seemed to me I must die with
anguish. I wept for this love through long nights; I prayed
for it, as if it had been the dearly loved child of my heart
that was dying by inches. I cast about for aid and advice
in my trouble and for physics to cure your sick love, and
whatever secret potions I had heard of, such as
love-philtres, I mixed them, betwixt hope and fear, in your
morning draught and your supper wine. I laid out your
breast-cloth under three waxing moons and read the marriage
psalm over it, and on your bedstead I first painted with my
own blood thirteen hearts in a cross, but all to no avail,
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