``Silence. I will not listen!'' ``And for what?''
She added strangely, in a softer mood.
``You see I am not angry. Do you not?
Only soft--hearted, and alas! too good.
Why did you follow me?'' She took my hand
With a sudden action so devoid of guile
That I, who could not choose but understand,
Was softened too and fooled into a smile.
``Why did you follow me? Here, feel,'' she said,
``How my heart beats. It frightens me to find
So much of cunning in so young a head,
So young a heart,--and mine which is not blind!''
She pressed my hand to her side. In truth, her heart
Was beating there, my own heart's counterpart.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
