'_E bello--il ballo?_' he asked at length, one direct, flashing
question.
'_Si--molto bello_,' cries the woman, glad to have speech again.
The eyes of the wood-cutter flash like actual possession. He seems now
to have come into his own. With all his senses, he is dominant, sure.
He is inconceivably vigorous in body, and his dancing is almost perfect,
with a little catch in it, owing to his lameness, which brings almost a
pure intoxication. Every muscle in his body is supple as steel, supple,
as strong as thunder, and yet so quick, so delicately swift, it is
almost unbearable. As he draws near to the swing, the climax, the
ecstasy, he seems to lie in wait, there is a sense of a great strength
crouching ready. Then it rushes forth, liquid, perfect, transcendent,
the woman swoons over in the dance, and it goes on, enjoyment, infinite,
incalculable enjoyment. He is like a god, a strange natural phenomenon,
most intimate and compelling, wonderful.
But he is not a human being. The woman, somewhere shocked in her
independent soul, begins to fall away from him. She has another being,
which he has not touched, and which she will fall back upon.
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