He stood on tiptoe to peep, but could catch no more than a glimpse of daintily flowered silks and hangings, and gilded mirrors, and a sheen of marqueterie and ormolu, all in the richly fragile fashion of the day.
“No,” she said, still pale and troubled: “In my bedroom, which is above.”
He wafted a kiss to that lily sanctuary.
“Could you not, unsuspected, come down from it,” he whispered—“just to the little balcony—and speak with me when all the house is silent? To be alone together in the night, my beautiful!”
Her cheek had turned from pale to pink; but she looked at him with unfaltering eyes.
“I will do anything you tell me to,” she said.
“Even if it were that, Isabel?”
“It would not be wrong if you told me.”
Much moved, he touched her hand, and bade her sleep undisturbed for him. “And speak for me in your prayers,” he said.
“Every night,” she answered, “when I kneel to our unknown God, Bonbec, and pray that some day we may find the print of His footsteps under the rainbow.”