Claire looked at Danilo. He put out his hand and took the cup from her.... They brought bread next, not sliced, but in a huge brown loaf. The youth broke through the crisp crust and gave them each a piece. It seemed to Claire as if she were partaking of some strange and beautiful sacrament. She looked away from the firelight—the fog had grown whiter and more dense, and the city below them had ceased to exist. It was as if care had died and this pallid mist were a winding-sheet that would forever screen its ghastly face.
The music started up once more. The little brown girl and her lover whirled away.
"Come," said Danilo, as he drew Claire gently toward him.
She tossed aside her hat, throwing it with joyful abandon upon the top of a stunted rose-hedge which bent to receive it. They began to dance, simply, beautifully, naturally, their feet planted firmly upon the yellow clay, their quick, ardent breaths further whitening the evening air.
"Claire! Claire!" Danilo bent over, in the fashion of the lean-flanked youth, toward her parted lips. "Claire, do you hear me?... I love you!"
"Yes," she answered, smiling back at him, "I hear you!"
"From the same cup, Claire ... joy or sorrow! We shall drink always from the same cup."
"Yes, joy or sorrow! Joy or sorrow!" she repeated after him.
"When we mounted the stairs to-night, Claire, we did not know that we were climbing to happiness."
"Let us stay up here always.... Let us never go down."