So flat was the plain that mere sky filled
nine-tenths of the prospect; and all the wide dome of it tinkled with
the singing of larks.
"_Ma dove? dove?_ . . ."
The Princess pointed, and far on the road, miles beyond the waggon,
I saw that which no man, sick or hale, sees for the first time in his
life without a lift of the heart--the long glittering rampart of the
Alps.
"Do we cross them?"
"_Pianu_. . . . In time, O beloved; thou and I . . . all in good
time."
I gazed up at her, half-frightened by the tenderness in her voice;
and what I saw frightened me wholly. The sullenness had gone from
her eyes; as a mother upon the child in her lap, so she looked down
upon me; but her face was wan, even in the warm sunlight, and
pinched, and hollow-eyed. I lifted her hand--a little way only, my
own being so weak. It was frail, transparent, as though wasted by
very hunger.
She read the question I could not ask, and answered it with a brave
laugh. (It appeared, then, that she had taught herself to laugh.)
"We have been sick, thou and I. The mountains will cure us.
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