Up on the top of the hill, beyond where he had spread the lunch, over,
out of sight, he lay down on his face. So had his virtue been rewarded,
and "the Cyprian," goddess of love, taken her revenge! And before his
eyes, dim with tears, came Megan's face with the sprig of apple blossom
in her dark, wet hair. 'What did I do that was wrong?' he thought. 'What
did I do?' But he could not answer. Spring, with its rush of passion,
its flowers and song-the spring in his heart and Megan's! Was it just
Love seeking a victim! The Greek was right, then--the words of the
"Hippolytus" as true to-day!
"For mad is the heart of Love,
And gold the gleam of his wing;
And all to the spell thereof
Bend when he makes his spring.
All life that is wild and young
In mountain and wave and stream
All that of earth is sprung,
Or breathes in the red sunbeam;
Yea, and Mankind. O'er all a royal throne,
Cyprian, Cyprian, is thine alone!"
The Greek was right! Megan! Poor little Megan--coming over the hill!
Megan under the old apple tree waiting and looking! Megan dead, with
beauty printed on her!
A voice said:
"Oh, there you are! Look!"
Ashurst rose, took his wife's sketch, and stared at it in silence.
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