THE WHITE WIND. 
65 
Nay, touch me not.  I am a virgin vowed — 
 
She lays her hand upon his arm. 
 
I am of royal race 
Most mortal proud — 
 
She kneels, kissing his robe. 
 
Spare me, sweet sir ! 
 
She pretends to stagger, and falls back upon the ground. 
Her robe falls from her. 
 
THE YOUTH 
 
I am a messenger. 
He disappears. 
 
MIRIAM 
 
Shaitan !  he slipped my grip.  
Is there no flood to drip  
Some icy liquor on this hell-scarred brow ?  
See !  The red star glows fainter now.  
All is a velvet heat of horror.  Night  
Holds me in torture. 
 
Hark !  the lake 
Stirs in its sleep ;  the ripples shake.  
— Oh for the wind !  Here naked will I lie  
And let its coolness bite into my blood.