It was empty as she had left it, and
my back pressed the very bed of fern on which she had lain. The fern
was dry now, after long winnowing by the wind that found its way into
every crevice of this mountain summit.
How could I choose but think of her? Thinking of her, how could I
choose but weary myself in vain speculation, by a hundred guesses
attempting to force my way past the edge of the mystery, the sinister
shadow which wrapped her round, and penetrate to the heart of it?
I recalled her beauty, childlike yet sullen; her eyes, so forthright
at times and transparently innocent, yet at times so swiftly clouded
with suspicion, not merely shy, but shy with terror, like the eyes of
a wild creature entrapped; her bearing, by turns disdainful and
defiant with a guarded shame. This turf, these boulders, had made
her bower, these matted creepers her curtain. Here she had lived
secure among savage men, each one of them ready to die--so
Marc'antonio assured me, and all that I had seen confirmed it--rather
than injure a hair of her head or suffer it to be injured. She was a
king's daughter.
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