Now he rode back over the
moorland, and the day was awake and he was awake too. He rode swiftly
through the gorse and heather, scattering the dewdrops as he went,
thousands of dewdrops there were, myriads of pinkish purple
heath-bells, and some pure white ones, and yellow gorse blossoms which
smelt of honey, and birds that trilled, and such a morning fragrance in
the air as made his heart ache for vague longing. Ah, if all had been
but as it might have been, for there were the fair grey towers of
Camylott rising before him, and he was riding homeward--and, oh, God,
if he had been riding home to the arms of the most heaven-sweet woman
in the world--heaven-sweet not for her mere loveliness' sake, but
because she was to him as Eve had been to Adam--the one woman God had
made.
His heart swelled and throbbed with thinking it as he rode up the
avenue, and its throbbing almost stopped when he approached the garden
and saw a tall white figure standing alone by a fountain and looking
down. He sprang from his horse and turned it loose to reach its stable,
and went forward feeling as if a dream had begun again, but this time a
strange, sweet one.
Her long white draperies hung loose about her, so that she looked like
some statue; her hands were crossed on her chest and her chin fell upon
them, while her eyes looked straight before into the water. She was
pale as he had never seen her look before, her lip had a weary curve
and droop, and under her eyes were shadows.
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