A little to one side, a handsome shepherd stood leaning upon his staff.
“Irina,” he whispered, “dost thou see the golden leaves on yonder beech? It is time—I must go down with my sheep into the valley, down into the Baragan, perhaps as far as the Dobrudgea, and I shall see thee no more till spring-time. Give me a good word, that my heart may have no cause to tremble when I think of thee looking upon the other lads!”
“What wouldst have me say? Thou dost not love me truly, and I shall soon be forgotten.”
“I will die ere I forget thee, Irina.”
“These be but words—these I do not believe.”
“What must I do, then, that thou mayst believe me?”
Irina’s eyes sparkled as she gave him a sidelong glance and answered, “That which thou canst never do.”
“I can do anything,” said Jonel slowly, as though he scarcely knew that he spoke.
“Nay, thou canst not bide without thy sheep; thou wouldst sooner do without me than them.”