The concentrated pent-up longing of all
these months was animating him. To see his lady again! To clasp her! To
kiss her--to kneel to her--and give her homage and worship. And to behold
his little son. Always he carried the minute flaxen curl in a locket, and
often he had looked at it, and tried to picture the wee head from which it
had been cut. But she--his love--would bring his son to him--and perhaps
let him hold him in his arms. Ah! he shut his eyes and imagined the tender
scene. Would she be changed? Should he see the traces of suffering? But he
would caress all memory of pain away, and surely this meeting would only be
the forerunner of others to come. Fate could never intend such deep, true
love as theirs to be apart. An exaltation uplifted him. And if his lady
were a Queen, and wore a crown, he felt himself the greatest king on earth,
for was not he the absolute ruler of her heart? And who could wish for a
more glorious kingdom?
The hours from Constantinople seemed longer than the whole voyage. He could
hardly keep his attention to talk coherently about ordinary things at
meals, and his father and Mark Grigsby left him practically alone.
At last, at last, the 29th of May dawned, boiling hot and cloudlessly fair.
For obvious reasons they stayed beyond sight of the coast until darkness
fell, and then came close inshore.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209