It was the loveliness of a newly-awakened soul. The
wonderful Pandora-casket of life, with its infinite evil, its little
good, had given up its secret. She knew what passionate love really
means. She knew what such love mostly means--self-sacrifice, surrender
of the world's wealth, severance from friends, the breaking of all old
ties. To love as she loved means the crossing of a river more fatal than
the Rubicon, the casting of a die more desperate than that which Caesar
flung upon the board when he took up arms against the Republic.
The river was not yet crossed, but her feet were on the margin, wet with
the ripple of the stream. The fatal die was not yet cast, but the
dice-box was in her hand ready for the throw. Lesbia and Montesma danced
together--not too often, three waltzes out of sixteen--but when they
were so waltzing they were the cynosure of the room. That betting of
which Maulevrier had heard was rife to-night, and the odds upon the
Cuban had gone up. It was nine to four now that those two would be over
the border before the week was out.
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