delicacy, surprising in so strong a model. Her eyes were clear and fearless
and true; but one could see that they must have served her ill indeed often
enough, for they were evidently incapable of understanding falsity, and evil.
The nose was straight and broad, full of energy; and the mouth passionate
and firm. The lips were somewhat thick, but they were mobile; [76] and the
whole expression of the face redeemed any defect of any feature. For while
its general physical aspect was severe, even savage — she might have been a
Tartar beauty, the bride of a Gengis Khan, or a South Sea Island Queen,
tossing her lovers into the crater of Mauna Loa after killing them in the
excess and fantasy of her passion — yet the soul within shone out and turned
the swords to plowshares. There was pride, indeed, but only of that kind
which is (as it were) the buckler on the arm of nobility; the woman was
incapable of meanness, of treachery, or even of unkindness.
There were terrible fires in the depths of that volcano; but they had been
turned to human service; they had been used to heat the forge of art. For this
woman was a great singer; and no one outside the Order knew of her secret
aspirations, or that she retired from time to time to one or the other of the
Profess-Houses of the Order, there to pursue a mightier transmutation of her
being.
She greeted Cyril with peculiar warmth — indeed, it had been she to
whom he had once thrown a pair of socks. In a way, it was he that had made
her a great artist; for his personality had broken down her dykes; not till she
met him had she ever let herself go. And it was by a magical trick that he had
shown her how to use her art as a vehicle for her soul.
Later, he had brought her into the Order, realizing the inestimable value of
her virtue; and if she was not its most advanced member she was its most
beloved.
They called her Sister Cybele. [77]