“Once,” she said very slowly, “you quoted poetry to me—a verse about the young queen’s crowning. Do you remember?”
He nodded.
“But that doesn’t apply now,” he assured her. “You are going to crown me with an undeserved and unspeakable crown.”
“Quote it to me now,” she commanded, with reinstated autocracy.
For a moment, the man looked into her face as the sun struck down on its delicate color, under the softness of hat and filmy automobile veil; then, clasping her very close, he whispered the lines:
“Beautiful, bold and browned,
Bright-eyed out of the battle,
The young queen rode to be crowned.”
“Do you remember some other lines in the same verse?” she questioned, in a voice that made his throbbing pulses bound faster; but, before he could answer, she went on:
“‘Then the young queen answered swift,
“We hold it crown of our crowning, to take our crown for a gift.”’”
They turned together, and started up the slope.
Transcriber's Note: