“No,” she replied softly. “The great light is our life. Dulness is destruction in Dreamland. We are only creatures of an hour, that is all.”
Oh, what witchery in the low, thrilling voice! Creatures of an hour, forsooth. Take care, Princess Golden hair! Take care.
“Your people are very beautiful, my Princess; but thou art fairer than a summer dream,” he responded gaily.
“Flatterer, I and my people are but as dreams,” she answered, smiling. “All thou see’st here of brightness and splendour are merely passing visions, nothing more.”
“Thou art more real and enchanting, dear Rosebud, than any dream that has haunted me.”
“Nay, adored stranger, mock me not,” said Golden Hair. “I am as the wind, which fills our sail—here, there, then gone for ever. Life with me is but a breath. But thou—thou wilt live when the wind and the vast sun, which giveth our race life and motion, are fled for ever.”
“Dear Princess,” and he caught her hand within [[136]]his own, looking into her eyes the while, “Love is not a breath, a sunbeam. It is mightier than the wind, and more powerful than the combined forces of sea and air. Didst thou ever love, sweet maiden?”
What soft diffused light, glinting from the rich window of some ancient cathedral, ever shed such a rosy glow as was seen for one brief instant upon her face?
“Oh, Love has come with thee from beyond the Western Mountain,” she answered quietly.
“And thou hast felt its presence?”