Here is a nice state of affairs. I, at my age, to fall
a victim to this modern Circe! But then she was not modern, at least she
said not. She was almost as ancient as the original Circe.
I tore my hair, and jumped up from my couch, feeling that if I did
not do something I should go off my head. What did she mean about the
scarabaeus too? It was Leo's scarabaeus, and had come out of the old
coffer that Vincey had left in my rooms nearly one-and-twenty years
before. Could it be, after all, that the whole story was true, and
the writing on the sherd was _not_ a forgery, or the invention of some
crack-brained, long-forgotten individual? And if so, could it be that
_Leo_ was the man that _She_ was waiting for--the dead man who was to be
born again! Impossible! The whole thing was gibberish! Who ever heard of
a man being born again?
But if it were possible that a woman could exist for two thousand years,
this might be possible also--anything might be possible. I myself might,
for aught I knew, be a reincarnation of some other forgotten self, or
perhaps the last of a long line of ancestral selves.
Pages:
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306