Their names alone
warmed the blood with the wine of romance: the Princess Yolande; the
Duchess Beatrix; the Lady Melusine. Surely, with such names and such
profiles, they had been worth a man's living or dying for; and if life
had not been so vivid for me that day, I should have wished myself
back in the far past, in heavy, uncomfortable armour, fighting their
battles.
"'Where are all the dear, dead women?'" asked the Boy. "'What's become
of all the gold that used to hang, and brush their shoulders?' Maybe
part of the answer to Browning's question lies in those tombs."
"They were Princesses, like your sister," said I. "I've been fancying
them with her eyes."
"What do you know about her eyes?" he asked quickly.
"I imagine them like yours."
"Let's get out into the sunshine again," said the Boy. "I'm afraid
it's time to leave the Princesses, and go back to the Contessa."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIV
The Revenge of the Mountain
"Contending with the fretful elements."
--SHAKESPEARE.
It is the early bird which gathers the worm, if the worm has
thoughtlessly got up early too; but it is also the bird which comes
flying from afar off, whatever his engagements elsewhere may be; the
bird which, having come, remains on the spot favoured by the worm,
singing sweet songs to charm it into a mood ripe for the gathering.
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