CHAPTER XI.
FAIRY-GOLD.
In the full noon heat of the next day—heat that brooded on the hills and glistened on the sea, in which the leaves and the flowers drooped, and the sails of the feluccas hung stirless—Idalia moved slowly and thoughtfully up and down her reception-room, the sunlight straying in chequered rays through the chinks of the shutters, and falling fitfully across her. The wolf-hound followed her step for step; there was not a sound except the falling of the fountains and the buzzing of a little hummingbird tangled among the flowers. There was a certain shadow on her, but it was not that of grief, still less was it that of any tremulous effeminate sorrow; it was haughty, unrestful, with much of doubt, much of rebellion, much of disdain in it—the shadow that was on the Reine Blanche in the fetters of Fotheringay, on Marie Antoinette in the presence of Mirabeau. There was an intense scorn in the dark
