SOPHY OF KRAVONIA
Talti were parties to their pleasure, whether as they rode far along the shore, or sat and ate a simple meal on the rock-strewn margin. Hopes and fears, dangers and stern resolves, were forgotten; even of the happier issues which the future promised, or dangled before their eyes, there was little thought or speech. The blood of youth flowed briskly, the heart of youth rose high. The grave Prince joked, jested, and paid his court; Sophy's eyes gleamed with the fun as not even the most exalted and perilous adventure could make them sparkle.
"Oh, it's good," she cried—"good to live and see the sun! Monseigneur, I believe I'm a pagan—a sun-worshipper! When he's good enough to warm me through, and to make the water glitter for me, and shadows dance in such a cunning pattern on the hills, then I think I've done something that he likes, and that he's pleased with me!" She sprang to her feet and stretched out her hands towards the sun. "In the grave, I believe, I shall remember the glorious light; my memory of that could surely never die!"
His was the holiday mood, too. He fell in with her extravagance, meeting it with banter.
"It's only a lamp," he said, "just a lamp; and it's hung there for the sole purpose of showing Sophy's eyes. When she's not there, they put it out for what's the use of it?"
"They put it out when I'm not there?"
"I've noticed it happen a dozen times of late."
"It lights up again when I come, Monseigneur?"
"Ah, then I forget to look!"
"You get very little sun anyhow, then!"
"I've something so much better."
It is pathetic to read—pathetic that she should
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