Paler still, yellow, and
dim, and blurred yonder in the town. The eastward facing windows were
golden with the rising sun. Yes, this was morning. The yachts were
moving away yonder, majestical, swan-like, white sails shining against
the blue.
She closed her eyes, and tried to sleep; but sleep would not come. She
was always listening--listening for the dip of oars, listening for a
snatch of melody from a mellow baritone whose every accent she knew so
well.
It came at last, the sound her soul longed for. She lay among her
cushions with closed eyes, listening, drinking in those rich ripe notes
as they came nearer and nearer, to the measure of dipping oars, _'La
donna e mobile--'_
Nearer and nearer, until the little boat ground against the hull. She
lifted her heavy eyelids as Montesma leapt over the gunwale, almost into
her arms. He was at her side, kneeling by her low chair, kissing the
little hands, chill with the freshness of morning.
'My own, my very own,' he murmured, passionately.
He cared no more for those copper-faced Helots yonder than if they had
been made of wood.
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