I am not what I seem, and yet am
not unseemly."
"Your jests had been better timed had they taken a fitter season. I must
hence."
"Go not, my beauteous queen," said the stranger, taking her hand, which
she dashed from her with indignation and alarm. She was darting up the
crag, but was again detained.
"I will worship thee:--thou shall be my star--the axle of my thoughts.
All"----
"Unhand me, sir, or I'll call those who have the power to punish as well
as to humble thy presumption!"
"Whom wilt thou call, my pretty lamb? The wolf? The snake is scotched in
the bower, and I but beseech thy gratitude. How that look of scorn
becomes thee! Pout not so, my queen, or thou wilt indeed make an excuse
for my rudeness."
"How? Again this insult! Begone, or thou shalt rue that ever thy thought
escaped thy tongue. I'll report thee to thy betters."
"My betters! and who be they, maiden? Thou knowest me not, _perdie_.
Hath not Sir John Finett shorn his love-locks and eschewed thy service
after leaving thy bower the other night?"
This taunt raised her indignation to a blaze--her bosom swelled at the
rebuke.
Still he retained her hand--with the other she clung to a withered tree,
whose roots held insecurely by the rock.
Pages:
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571