“That I do not know. She spins gold.”
“Spins gold? And for what?”
“For bridal veils—but I will have no gold at my wedding!” added Alba hastily, and she clutched at her head as though she would defend it from that dangerous contact.
“But thou canst not do otherwise,” said Porfirie, “or every one would wonder. Here we are at my home; we are even now riding into the courtyard, and thou must speak pleasantly to my mother.”
“Is she old and ugly?”
“Nay, she is fair and proud.”
“What does ‘proud’ mean?” asked Alba.
Porfirie looked into her eyes—they were as clear and unsullied as the sun itself. He pressed the maiden to his heart; then throwing the reins to the attendants who came forward, he sprang from his horse, lifted Alba gently to the ground, and offered his hand to lead her up the broad stone steps.
They entered a lofty hall, and there sat a tall, noble lady, surrounded by many maidens, and she was spinning beautiful gold-coloured silk. All rose from their work, and gazed in delighted amaze on the beautiful pair standing beneath the portal, that was just then flooded by the glory of the setting sun.