SOPHY OF KRAVONIA
this much tribute to curiosity. But the Prince's face was a picture of unembarrassed pleasure.
"Then be poetical! We'll all be poetical!" he cried, merrily. "In the intervals of drilling, be it understood!" he added, with a laugh.
Into this atmosphere, physical and moral—the exhilaration of keen mountain breezes, the brightness of a winter sun, the play of high hopes and of high spirit—came Sophy, with all her power of enjoying and her ardor in imagining. Her mind leaped from the sad embraces of the past, to fly to the arms of the present, to beckon gladly to the future. No more than this had yet emerged into consciousness; she was not yet asking how, for good or evil, she stood or was to stand towards the Prince. Fortune had done wonderful things for her, and was doing more yet. That was enough, and beyond that, for the moment, she was not driven.
The mixture of poetry and drilling suited her to perfection. She got both when she rode over to Volseni with the Prince. Crisp snow covered the ground, and covered, too, the roofs of the old, gray, hill-side city—long, sloping roofs, with here and there a round-tower with a snow-clad extinguisher atop. The town was no more than one long street, which bayed out at the farther end into a market-place. It stood with its back against a mountain-side, defended on the other three sides by a sturdy wall, which only now, after five centuries, began to crumble away at the top.
At the city-gate bread and salt were brought to the Bailiff and his companion, and she and he rode side by side down the long street to the marketplace. Here were two or three hundred, tall, fine fellows, waiting their leader. Drill had not yet brought
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