"Why was I thrown into the world?" striking her breast. "Why was I made so—and not one to watch or care through those mad years? To be given a body like this—and tossed to the wolves."

She turned to Anne, her arms outstretched, and so stood white and strange and beauteous as a statue, with drops like great pearls running down her lovely cheeks, and she caught her breath sobbingly, like a child.

"I was thrown to them," she wailed piteously, "and they harried me—and left the marks of their great teeth—and of the scars I cannot rid myself—and since it was my fate—pronounced from my first hour—why was not this," clutching her breast, "left hard as 'twas at first? Not a woman's—not a woman's, but a she-cub's. Ah! 'twas not just—not just that it should be so!"

Anne slipped from her bed and ran to her, falling upon her knees and clinging to her, weeping bitterly.

"Poor heart!" she cried. "Poor, dearest heart!"

Her touch and words seemed to recall Clorinda to herself. She started as if wakened from a dream, and drew her form up rigid.

"I have gone mad," she said. "What is it I do?" She passed her hand across her brow and laughed a little wild laugh. "Yes," she said; "this it is to be a woman—to turn weak and run to other women—and weep and talk. Yes, by these signs I am a woman!" She stood with her clenched hands pressed against her breast. "In any fair fight," she said, "I could have struck back blow for blow—and mine would have been the heaviest; but being changed into a woman, my arms are taken from me. He who strikes, aims at my bared breast—and that he knows and triumphs in."

She set her teeth together, and ground them, and the look, which was like that of a chained and harried tigress, lit itself in her eyes.

"But there is none shall beat me," she said through these fierce shut teeth. "Nay I there is none! Get up, Anne," bending to raise her. "Get up, or I shall be kneeling too—and I must stand upon my feet."

She made a motion as if she would have turned and gone from the room without further explanation, but Anne still clung to her. She was afraid of her again, but her piteous love was stronger than her fear.

"Let me go with you," she cried. "Let me but go and lie in your closet that I may be near, if you should call."

Clorinda put her hands upon her shoulders, and stooping, kissed her, which in all their lives she had done but once or twice.