He sang for her a little French song, a song of the voyageur who dreamed
of home. The lady, listening, looking up at the bright moon, felt a warm
drop upon her cheek, and he saw the tears sparkling upon her lashes.
"Mademoiselle," he whispered then, "I, too, have been a wanderer, but my
dreams were not of France; no, I do not dream of that home, of that dear
country. It is of a dearer country, a dream country--a country of gold
and snow," he cried softly, looking it her white brow and the fair,
lightly powdered hair above it. "Gold and snow, and the blue sky of a
lady's eyes!"
"I had thought the ladies of France were dark, sir.
"Cruel! It is that she will not understan'! Have I speak of the ladies
of France? No, no, no! It is of the faires' country; yes, 'tis a
province of heaven, mademoiselle. Do I not renounce my allegiance to
France? Oh, yes! I am subjec'--no, content to be slave--in the lan' of
the blue sky, the gold, and the snow.
"A very pretty figure," answered Lady Mary, her eyes downcast. "But does
it not hint a notable experience in the making of such speeches?"
"Tormentress! No. It prove only the inspiration it is to know you."
"We English ladies hear plenty of the like sir; and we even grow
brilliant enough to detect the assurance that lies beneath the
courtesies of our own gallants."
"Merci! I should believe so!" ejaculated M. de Chateaurien: but he
smothered the words upon his lips.
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