The man was her slave.

As she glanced down at his kneeling form she felt a great pitying tenderness for that man she was used to call--even in her thoughts--the master of life.
She lifted her eyes and looked sadly at the southern heavens under which lay the path of their lives--her own, and that man's at her feet.

Did he not say himself is that she was the light of his life?
She would be his light and his wisdom; she would be his greatness and his strength; yet hidden from the eyes of all men she would be, above all, his only and lasting weakness.

A very woman! In the sublime vanity of her kind she was thinking already of moulding a god from the clay at her feet.

A god for others to worship.