Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to
disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never
was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching
beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the
duskiness of the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still
wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the
three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously contending for
the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam.
But they were young: their burning passions proved them so.
Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither
granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to
interchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize,
they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they struggled
to and fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a
thousand fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright
stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which,
grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die.
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