How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. "I don't deserve it," he said, at length; "but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment's happiness. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. Now, it won't do a bit of good to warn Spurlock.
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