“What a strange ball!” he said, shading his sight with his hand, and approaching close to it. “How large it is! It seems large enough to hold that rascal Dusk. What if he should be hiding here? Perhaps it is solid. Humph! I’ll try it. Ball, crystal ball, if thou art hollow, by my ram’s horn, I command thee! Open!”
Before the words had left his lips the globe slowly split in twain; while from within there rose before his wondering sight—not the ugly sprite—but the graceful form of a lovely young maiden.
Never in the life of this poor digger, either in his waking sense or in dreams, had he seen any woman so enchantingly lovely. In olden times men were blessed with visions of the angels, and they essayed to picture what they had seen. Yet how crude the forms of Cherubim and Seraphim both on canvas and on page to the glorious reality!
If Samson the Nugget had been gifted with the descriptive powers of the world-renowned war correspondent, I’m afraid the twenty-six letters in our alphabet would not have been sufficient to [[33]]convey any idea of the beauty of this damsel upon whom he gazed. Her complexion was like that delicate tint we see upon the pearl shell, and her hair shone like burnished gold.
“Who art thou, fair lady?” cried the Australian youth, gallantly advancing with outstretched hands to assist her from the pedestal whereon she had been imprisoned.
“Alas!” she answered, weeping, “I am the daughter of King Golden Cloud, and my name is Silverhaze. Because I would not consent to become the wife of a wicked dwarf, named Dusk, he stole me from my home, and conveying me here, enclosed me in yon crystal globe.”
No ring-dove cooing for its mate had softer, sweeter voice than Princess Silverhaze. Our hero led her down the stairway and placed her on a couch by the window. Seating himself at her feet he briefly explained to her the part he had taken in search of their common foe.
“Where is Golden Cloud, your home?” he said. “I swear I will not rest until I have placed you safe again in the arms of your kith and kin.”
“Thou art a brave youth,” answered the Princess, looking down at him with eyes that sparkled gratitude. “If thou canst indeed take me from [[34]]this horrid place, my father will load thee with honours, and poor Silverhaze will love thee always.”
Ah me! Who shall write the Nugget’s answer? Who shall detail his confusion, his stammerings, his schoolboy blushes? Not I, my young friends. Wise old Atha knows full well how near the Love God dangles to yourselves—how near ye are to the reality without the ideal being stamped on this page to point the way.