It may be doubted if the instincts of the earth-born can ever pierce

the trappings of a knight-at-arms. They trust in emotions which such

gear is designed to hide or transfigure. Isoult, observe, had caught

Prosper out of his harness, when before the face of the sky she had

thrilled him to pity. But when once he had stooped to her, for the

very fact, she made haste to set him up on high in her heart, and in

more seemly guise. There and thenceforward he stood on his pedestal

figured, not as a pitiful saviour (whom a girl must be taught to

worship), but as an armed god who suffered her homage. She was no

better (or no worse, if you will) than the rest of her sex in this,

that she loved to love, and was bewildered to be loved. So she would

never get him out of armour again. Her god might not stoop.




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