So she brought him to the margin of a tiny lake set in the midst of turf that sank like velvet beneath his feet. There beside a carved statue of an unknown god she paused, and he paused, too, waiting for he knew not what.
Tiny wavelets broke on the white pebbles. The lily pads rocked on them, rising and sinking, shimmering white in the starlight. Suddenly the girl stood up, rising for the first time to her full height.
“Walter!” she cried. “Walter! Walter!”
Topham did not speak. He could not. But he held out his arms and drew her to his heart. “Elsa!” he murmured, after a while, and again, “Elsa! Elsa!”
She stirred in his arms. “I love you! I love you!” she murmured. “Ah! Do you know that I nearly fainted when you faced me there tonight! Cruel! Cruel! Not to give me warning!”
Topham drew her closer. “I did not know!” he breathed. “I did not know. And yet how could I not know?”
Gently the countess freed herself. “Sit down,” she ordered. “Here! Where I can touch you, but not where I can look into your eyes. I—I could not trust myself else. Do you know dear, you have wonderful eyes.”
Topham laughed. “I! Nonsense! You mean that you have!”
“No! I mean you have. There is enchantment in them, if you like. How else could a single glance from them across a crowded street bring me—me—Elsa de Ouro Preto—to your feet. My face burns when I think how I fell into your arms—and yet I would not have it otherwise. Dios! Walter! What have you done to me?”
“Not more than you have done to me—”