Again she wept, exhausted, broken-hearted weeping it was. And

Prosper's face was drawn by pity of her. That story of her life and

love, it was a sort of saga, something as moving as an old ballad most

beautifully sung. He half-guessed then that she had genius; at least,

he admitted that it was something more than just her beauty and her

sorrow that so greatly stirred him. To speak such sentences in such a

voice--that was a gift. She had no more need of words than had a

symphony. The varied and vibrant cadences of her voice gave every

delicate shading of feeling, of thought. She was utterly expressive.

All night, after he had seen her eat and sent her to her bed, the

phrases of her music kept repeating themselves in his ears. "An' so I

first knowed what lovin' might be like"; and, "I would love you, only

somethin' makes me shake away from you--because Pierre's dead." This

was a Joan he had not yet realized, and he knew that after all his

enchanted leopardess was a woman and that his wooing of her had hardly

yet begun. So did she baffle him by the utter directness of her heart.

There was so little of a barrier against him and yet--there was so

much. For the first time, he doubted his wizardry, and, at that, his

desire for the wild girl's love stood up like a giant and gripped his

soul.

Joan slept deeply without dreams; she had confessed herself. But

Prosper was as restless and troubled as a youth. She had not made her

escape; she had followed him home with humility, with confusion in her

eyes. She had been glad to hold out her hands again to the fire on his

hearth. And yet--he was now her prisoner.




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