There was no other Beatrice but herself, no other woman whom he had ever loved.

An enchantment greater than her own was upon her and held her in bonds she could neither bend nor break.
She was sitting in her own chair now and he was kneeling before her, holding her hands and looking up to her.

For him the world held nothing else.

For him her hair was black as night; for him the unlike eyes were dark and fathomless; for him the heavy marble hand was light, responsive, delicate; for him her face was the face of Beatrice, as he had last seen it long ago.

The years had passed, indeed, and he had sought her through many lands, but she had come back to him the same, in the glory of her youth, in the strength of her love, in the divinity of her dark beauty, his always, through it all, his now--for ever.
For a long time he did not speak.