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 ollowed her sisters to the mountains. But see on the mountain top she stands, staff in hand, watching for the shepherd, who plays the well-known tune. When she sees him, she springs like a gazelle down the mountain, over the sharp stones, through the thistle and the cactus thick with thorns. To move faster she throws away her staff. Thorns tear her gown and pierce her ankles. Stones cut her sandals to pieces and gash her feet. The maiden's way down the mountain is red with blood. But never does she rest, for she hears her lover's flute. She throws herself at the shepherd's feet, she kisses his mantle, saying: "Be not angry, my lord, that I did not come before."'

'My beloved,' says the shepherd, 'is swift and generous as the forest spring. She will not let me languish.'

ARIE, my ever generous spring, I know what envious people will say of you, men who turn the treadmill of a joyless marriage, women who bear their children in marriage beds void of beauty.

They will lift horrified eyes to a heaven which laughs at their prudish folly, they will call you a wanton.

Marie a wanton! One might as well call the rose a stink-pot or the nightingale a squeaking toy. Never one moment has Marie's pure bosom found lodging for a wanton thought. She is an