She draws nearer and gazes upon the king with trembling and with rapture. Her swarthy and vivid face is inexpressibly beautiful. Her heavy, thick, dark-red hair, into which she has stuck two flowers of the scarlet poppy, covers her shoulders in countless resilient ringlets and spreads over her back, and, transpierced by the rays of the sun, glows in flame, like aureate purple. A necklace which she had made herself out of some red, dried berries, naïvely winds twice about her long, dark, slender neck.
“I did not notice thee!” she says gently, and her voice sounds like the song of a flute. “Whence didst thou come?”
“Thou sangst so well, maiden!”
She bashfully casts down her eyes and turns red, but beneath her long lashes and in the corners of her lips trembles a secret smile.
“Thou sangst of thy dear. He is as light as a roe, as a young hart upon the mountains. For he is very fair, thy dear,—is not that the truth, maiden?”
Her laughter is ringing and musical, as though silver were falling upon a golden platter.
“I have no dear. It is but a song. I have yet had no dear....”
For a minute they are silent, and intently, without smiling, gaze at each other.... Birds loudly call one another among the trees. The maiden’s bosom quickly rises and falls under the worn linen.
“I do believe thee, beautiful one. Thou art so fair....”
“Thou dost mock me. Behold, how black I am....”