She looked at him for some time with an innocent, almost childish, curiosity shining under her long lashes. At last she gave a low little laugh: "Are you _afraid_ of me?" she asked; "why don"t you speak? but perhaps," she added to herself, "mortals _cannot_ speak."

"I was silent," he said, "lest by speaking I should anger you--for surely you must be some G.o.ddess or sea-nymph?"

"Ah, you _can_ speak!" she cried. "No, I am no G.o.ddess or nymph, and you will not anger me--if only you will tell me many things I want to know!"

And she began to ask him all the questions she could think of: first about the great world in which men lived, and then about himself, for she was very curious, in a charmingly wilful and capricious fashion of her own.

He answered frankly and simply, but it seemed as if some influence were upon him which kept him from being dazzled and overcome by her loveliness, for he gave no sign as yet of yielding to the glamour she cast upon all other men, nor did his eyes gleam with the despairing adoration the siren knew so well.

She was quick to perceive this, and it piqued her. She paid less and less attention to the answers he gave her, and ceased at last to question him further.

Presently she said, with a strange smile that showed her cruel little teeth gleaming between her scarlet lips, "Why don"t you ask me who _I_ am, and what I am doing here alone? do not you care to know?"

"If you will deign to tell me," he said.

"Then I will tell you," she said; "I am a siren--are you not afraid _now_?"

"Why should I be afraid?" he asked, for the name had no meaning in his ears.

She was disappointed; it was only her voice--nothing else, then--that deprived men of their senses; perhaps this youth was proof even against that; she longed to try, and yet she hesitated still.

"Then you have never heard of me," she said; "you don"t know why I sit and watch for the great gilded ships you mortals build for yourselves?"

"For your pleasure, I suppose," he answered. "I have watched them myself many a time; they are grand as they sweep by, with their sharp brazen beaks cleaving the frothing water, and their painted sails curving out firm against the sky. It is good to hear the measured thud of the great oars and the cheerful cries of the sailors as they clamber about the cordage."

She laughed disdainfully. "And you think I care for all that!" she cried. "Where is the pleasure of looking idly on and admiring?--that is for them, not for me. As these galleys of yours pa.s.s, I sing--and when the sailors hear, they must come to me. Man after man leaps eagerly into the sea, and makes for the sh.o.r.e--until at last the oars grind and lock together, and the great ship drifts helplessly on, empty and aimless. I like that."

"But the men?" he asked, with an uneasy wonder at her words.

"Oh, they reach the sh.o.r.e--some of them, and then they lie at my feet, just as you are lying now, and I sing on, and as they listen they lose all power or wish to move, nor have I ever heard them speak as you speak; they only lie there upon the sand or rock, and gaze at me always, and soon their cheeks grow hollower and hollower, and their eyes brighter and brighter--and it is I who make them so!"

"But I see them not," said the youth, divided between hope and fear; "the beach is bare; where, then, are all those gone who have lain here?"

"I cannot say," she replied carelessly; "they are not here for long; when the sea comes up it carries them away."

"And you do not care!" he cried, struck with horror at the absolute indifference in her face; "you do not even try to keep them here?"

"Why should I care?" said the siren lightly; "I do not want them. More will always come when I wish. And it is so wearisome always to see the same faces, that I am glad when they go."

"I will not believe it, siren," groaned the young man, turning from her in bitter anguish; "oh, you cannot be cruel!"

"No, I am not cruel," she said in surprise. "And why will you not believe me? It is true!"

"Listen to me," he said pa.s.sionately: "do you know how bitter it is to die,--to leave the sunlight and the warm air, the fair land and the changing sea?"

"How can I know?" said the siren. "_I_ shall never die--unless--unless something happens which will never be!"

"You will live on, to bring this bitterness upon others for your sport.

We mortals lead but short lives, and life, even spent in sorrow, is sweet to most of us; and our deaths when they come bring mourning to those who cared for us and are left behind. But you lure men to this isle, and look on unmoved as they are borne away!"

"No, you are wrong," she said; "I am not cruel, as you think me; when they are no longer pleasant to look at, I leave them. I never see them borne away. I never thought what became of them at last. Where are they now?"

"They are dead, siren," he said sadly, "drowned. Life was dear to them; far away there were women and children to whom they had hoped to return, and who have waited and wept for them since. Happy years were before them, and to some at least--but for you--a restful and honoured old age.

But you called them, and as they lay here the greedy waves came up, dashed them from these rocks and sucked them, blinded, suffocating, battling painfully for breath and life, down into the dark green depths.

And now their bones lie tangled in the sea-weed, but they themselves are wandering, sad, restless shades, in the shadowy world below, where is no sun, no happiness, no hope--but only sighing evermore, and the memory of the past!"

She listened with drooping lids, and her chin resting upon her soft palm; at last she said with a slight quiver in her voice,"I did not know--I did not mean them to die. And what can I do? I cannot keep back the sea."

"You can let them sail by unharmed," he said.

"I cannot!" she cried. "Of what use is my power to me if I may not exercise it? Why do you tell me of men"s sufferings--what are they to me?"

"They give you their lives," he said; "you fill them with a hopeless love and they die for it in misery--yet you cannot even pity them!"

"Is it love that brings them here?" she said eagerly. "What is this that is called love? For I have always known that if I ever love--but then only--I must die, though what love may be I know not. Tell me, so that I may avoid it!"

"You need not fear, siren," he said, "for, if death is only to come to you through love, you will never die!"

"Still, I want to know," she insisted; "tell me!"

"If a stranger were to come some day to this isle, and when his eyes meet yours, you feel your indifference leaving you, so that you have no heart to see him lie ign.o.bly at your feet, and cannot leave him to perish miserably in the cold waters; if you desire to keep him by your side--not as your slave and victim, but as your companion, your equal, for evermore--that will be love!"

"If that is love," she cried joyously, "I shall indeed never die! But that is not how men love _me_?" she added.

"No," he said; "their love for you must be some strange and enslaving pa.s.sion, since they will submit to death if only they may hear your voice. That is not true love, but a fatal madness."

"But if mortals feel love for one another," she asked,"_they_ must die, must they not?"

"The love of a man for a maiden who is gentle and good does not kill--even when it is most hopeless," he said; "and where she feels it in return, it is well for both, for their lives will flow on together in peace and happiness."

He had spoken softly, with a far away look in his eyes that did not escape the siren.

"And you love one of your mortal maidens like that?" she asked. "Is she more beautiful than I am?"

"She is mortal," he said, "but she is fair and gracious, my maiden; and it is she who has my love, and will have it while I live."

"And yet," she said, with a mocking smile, "I could make you forget her."

Her childlike waywardness had left her as she spoke the words, and a dangerous fire was shining in her deep eyes.

"Never!" he cried; "even you cannot make me false to my love! And yet,"

he added quickly, "I dare not challenge you, enchantress that you are; what is my will against your power?"

"You do not love me yet," she said; "you have called me cruel, and reproached me; you have dared to tell me of a maiden compared with whom I am nothing! You shall be punished. I will have you for my own, like the others!"

"Siren," he pleaded, seizing one of her hands as it lay close to him on the hot grey rock, "take my life if you will--but do not drive away the memory of my love; let me die, if I must die, faithful to her; for what am I, or what is my love, to you?"

"Nothing," she said scornfully, and yet with something of a caress in her tone, "yet I want you; you shall lie here, and hold my hand, and look into my eyes, and forget all else but me."