"Once there was another Helen," he said. His voice caressed my name.
"There have been many; which Helen?"
I so loved the word as he had spoken it that I must repeat it after him.
"_The_ Helen; there was never another--until you. She was terrible as
an army with banners; fair as the sea or the sunset. Men fought for her;
died for her. She had hair that meshed hearts and eyes that smote.
Sometimes I think--do you believe in soul transmigration?"
My heart beat until it choked me. Some voice far in the depths of my soul
warned me that I must check him--we must wait until I--he--Milly--
"Sometimes; who does not? But Prof. Darmstetter would say that it was
nonsense," I whispered, and waited without power to say another word.
"It is true; Helen is alive again, and all men worship her."
His eyes were so tenderly regardful that--I could not help it. Once more I
raised mine and we read each other's souls. And the music seized us and
swept us away with its rapture and its mystery.
The rest of the evening comes to me like a dream, through which I floated
in the breath of flowers and the far murmur of unheeded talk.
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