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She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her, Sir Rowland.
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