“Coffee never affected me before,” he considered impatiently; then he sat up in bed and punched the unoffending pillows into new shapes and flung himself down on them.
He hoped she was not awake too. He lay quite still for a minute, picturing an aureole of golden hair, pillowed in a shabby room, and stood in awe a minute before the innocence of that childlike face in slumber.
Then he suddenly punched his pillow again, wishing it were the head of one who would presently waken her and call her below stairs to run patiently at the bidding of folk in a ruffianly early-morning mood.
He looked at his watch in the moonlight. The wonder is that his ireful gaze did not stop the repeater at three A. M.
His window commanded the mound of geyserite which made the inn famous. He leaped out of bed on a chance that the view might break the monotony.
Scarcely had he reached the window when, in the lonely loveliness of the night, up sprang the geyser—lowly at first, then higher and higher—like a thing of life, leaping toward the moon, scattering myriad diamonds from its banner of cloud. No artificial light now bathed its beauty. No crowd of humanity encircled it like clustering bees. Alone in the silvery light it mounted and mounted under the brooding stars that knew it so well. They sparkled, and beckoned to the beloved captive, who, holding herself at full height, could not quite reach their kisses, but sank back at last, reflecting their brightness in her tears as she vanished.
“And Rosalie weeps. I know she does,” thought Irving; “and I won’t stay to see it.”
He jumped back into bed.