Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/261

Rh twinkled about her waist a girdle stiff with stones—you would have said they breathed. Mine own hands wreathed the dropping pearls in her hair, and pearls again were clasped around her throat. But no, I might tell thee every ornament—her jeweled fan, her comb of pearls, her floating veil of gauze, and still the best of all would escape us.

Thou speakest more like her page than her handmaiden.

Thou knowest not woman truly, for all thy wit. I speak most like a woman when I weigh the worth of beauty and rich apparel. Heigh-ho! I have felt the need of this. Thou, good Luca, who might have been my father, canst under stand me? He was as poor as thou. Why shouldst thou be his lackey, his slave? My hand were as dainty as hers, if it could but be spared its daily labor.

Yes, poor child, I understand thee, and yet thou art wrong. He is more slave to pride than I am to him. I know him well, Fiametta, after so many years of service, and to-day I pity him more than I fear him. Why, girl, my task is