"'From her bath she arose,
Pure and white as the snows,
Melisselda.'"
"Ay, that did I, when I washed off the convent. But my name is Sarah."
"Nay, not Sarah, but Saraï--my Princess!" His voice was hoarse and
faltering. This strange new sense of romance that, like a callow-bird,
had been stirring in his breast ever since he had heard of her quest
of him, spread its wings and soared heavenwards. She had been
impure--but her impurity swathed her in mystic seductiveness. The
world's law bound her no more than him--she was free and elemental, a
spirit to match his own; purified perpetually by its own white fire.
She came nearer, and her eyes wrapped him in flame.
"My Prince!" she cried.