And the wind played in softest zephyrs, and the stars blazed in the sky,
mirroring themselves in the blue lake below.

Such was their wedding night.

Oh! glorious youth! and still more glorious love!




CHAPTER IX


Who can tell the joy of their awakening? The transcendent pleasure to
Paul to be allowed to play with his lady's hair, all unbound for him to do
with as he willed? The glory to realise she was his--his own--in his arms?
And then to be tenderly masterful and give himself lordly airs of
possession. She was almost silent, only the history of the whole world of
passion seemed written in her eyes--slumbrous, inscrutable, their heavy
lashes making shadows on her soft, smooth cheeks.

The ring-dove was gone, a thing of mystery lay there instead--unresisting,
motionless, white. Now and then Paul looked at her half in fear. Was she
real? Was it some dream, and would he wake in his room at Verdayne Place
among the sporting prints and solid Chippendale furniture to hear Tompson
saying, "Eight o'clock, sir, and a fine day"?

Oh, no, no, she was real! He raised himself, and bent down to touch her
tenderly with his forefinger. Yes, all this fascination was indeed his,
living and breathing and warm, and he was her lover and lord. Ah!