“You are a wizard, M. de Tavernay,” she said. “I had expected at most a crust of bread, and you provide a feast.”
“A feast is of value,” I pointed out, “only when it is in one’s stomach.”
“Well, this shall soon be in mine,” she retorted. “Never in my life have I had such an appetite;” and she attacked the food with a vigor which it did me good to see.
Nor was I behind her. Never before or since have I tasted a fowl so tender, bread so sweet, wine so satisfying. It was almost worth the privations we had undergone—it was nature’s compensation for that suffering. And our first hunger past, we took time to pause and chat a little. She had regained all her old spirit, and I am sure that for her, as for me, there was something fascinating and even dangerous in that moment. We forgot past sorrow and future peril; we forgot our present situation and the trials we must still encounter. The moon was rising again over the hills to the east, and revealed, just as it had done the night before, all the subtle delicacy of her beauty. What she was thinking of I know not, but my own thoughts flew back irresistibly to that hour in the garden—that sweet, swift-winged hour!
“But was it only last night?” I murmured, not realizing that I spoke aloud until the words were uttered.
“Indeed, it seems an age away!” she assented absently; and a sudden burst of joy glowed within me.
“So you were thinking of it, too!” I cried, and tried to catch her hand.
“Thinking of what?” she asked, drawing away from me.
“Of the garden—of the few precious moments we passed together there,” I answered eagerly, my eyes on hers.
“On the contrary,” she answered coolly, though I could have sworn she blushed, “I was thinking only that last night I was safe with my friends at the château——”