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But Katherine, he had thought, was
so young and bright and beautiful; a child that had lived within the
cloister and had grown to maidenhood in sweet innocence. 'Twas like
finding in some tropic clime, embowered and shaded by thick, waxy
leaves, a glorious, ripe pomegranate, which he would grasp and drink
from its rich, red pulp, a portion that would cool and 'suage a
burning thirst; while Constance, by the side of Katherine, was like a
russet apple, into whose heart the worm of worldly knowledge had eaten
its surfeit and taken all sweetness away, and the poor thing hung low,
all dried and spiritless upon a broken bough to the convenience of any
passing hand. "Nay, nay; give me only the rich, ripe pomegranate; my
Katherine, Kate! Kate!" and blinded thus by the fever of desire to
possess only his sweet Kate, he swung wide the door of Constance's
room and passed to the bedside and leant over and kissed her.
She flushed red as she met his eyes--now cold and
unimpassioned--looking into the very depths of her own.


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