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“Love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave.”

She bends low and whispers the line upon his lips, while her fragrant breath, beating upon his cheek, sinks into his blood like the jasmines’ perfume,–more dangerous to the soul than Aphrodite’s kisses or Anacreon’s drunken song. By such arts did Cleopatra win the master spirit of the world and make the mailed warrior her doting slave, indifferent alike to honor and to duty, content but to live and love. What wonder that the callow shepherd lad, unskilled in woman’s wile, believed that his mistress loved him?– that his heart went out to the handsome coquette in a wild, passionate throb in which all Heaven’s angels sang and Hell’s demons shrieked!

A beautiful woman! Not the beauty of Greece, on which we gaze as upon some wondrous flower wafted from Elysian Fields, and too ethereal for this gross world; nor that of Rome, with Pallas’ snow-clad bosom and retrospective eye; but the sensuous beauty of the far south, that casts a Circean spell upon the souls of men. Her eyes are not dove’s eyes that softly shine along the path to Heaven, but wandering fires that light the way to Hell. Her lips are not a thread of scarlet, chaste as childhood and dewy as the dawn, but the deep sullen red of a city swept with flames. Her breasts are not like young roes that feed among the lilies, but ivory hemispheres threaded with purple fire and tinged with sunset’s tawny gold. Reverently as though touching divinity’s robe, Joseph caresses the wanton curls that stream like an inky storm-cloud over the shapely shoulders–he puts the little hands, heavy with costly gems, back from the tearful face and holds them with a grasp so fierce that the massy rings of beaten gold bruise the tender flesh. Mrs. Potiphar starts up, alarmed by his unwonted boldness–she reads his face with a swift glance that tells her he is no longer a lad, a pretty boy to be trifled with for the amusement of an idle hour. The Cupid’s bow had faded forever from his lip and childhood’s innocence from his eye; he has crossed life’s Rubicon, has passed at one stride from the Vale of Youth with its trifles and its idle tears, its ignorance of sex and stainless love, to Manhood’s rugged mountains, where blazes Ambition’s baleful star and the fires of passion ever beat, fiercer than those that sweep Gehenna’s sulphurous hills.

Even while her cheek crimsons with anger and her heart flutters with fear, the woman glories in Joseph’s guilty love, sweet incense to her vanity, evidence of her peerless beauty’s infernal power. She retreats a step as from the brink of an abyss, but farther she cannot fly, for there is a charm in her companion’s voice, potent as old Merlin’s mystic chant–tones low and sweet as music in dreams by maids who sleep in Dian’s bosom, yet wilder, fiercer than trumpets blown for war. As a sailor drawn to his doom by siren song, or a bird spellbound by some noxious serpent, she advances fearfully and slow until she is swept into his strong arms and held quivering there like a splotch of foam in a swift eddy of the upper Nile. The room swims before her eyes and fills with mocking demons that welcome her to the realm of darkness; the fountains’ ripple sounds like roaring thunder, in which she reads the angry warning of Egypt’s gods, while beneath the accursed magic of the kisses that burn upon her lips, her blood becomes boiling wine and rushes hissing through a heart of ice. The mocking demons turn to angels with Joseph’s handsome face and crown her with fragrant flowers: the threat’ning thunders to music sweet as Memmon’s matin hymn or accepted lover’s sighs, heard ‘neath the harvest moon,–she is afloat upon a sapphire sea beneath a sunset sky, the West Wind’s musky wing wafting her, whither she neither knows nor cares.