CHAPTER XI
HELÈNE awoke the next morning wild-eyed and distraught. She had had a most frightening dream. She had dreamed that she was bound and enveloped in a coarse rug, carried like the captive of some barbarian soldiery. Two terrible looking men in shaggy furs and great turbans were taking her down a narrow winding step-way hewn in a steep rock. She saw the slimy walls dripping with water and felt the heavy, damp air weighing on her chest so that she could scarcely breathe. She tried to scream in her terror. She heard the roaring of the surf beating against a door into which she realized she would soon be carried a prisoner. She must act at once—cry aloud for help. Straining at the thongs that bound her cruelly she gave a groan. It was then she awoke.
Her throat felt dry and almost parched. Trembling in every limb, she passed her hands over her face and took courage to look about her. Her eyes caught a purplish color against yellow boards; irregular cracks and knot holes let in faint streaks of light. Where was she? She pushed aside a heavy braid of hair that had fallen across her face and tried to collect herself. A grating noise from without drew her attention to the wall, where she saw a partly opened broad low window across which floated a purple scarf. Gradually she remembered. One by one the events of the past hours came back to her. She recalled the last words the young American had addressed to her. He had asked her to leave the window open, and she remembered carrying out his suggestion to put something over the opening so as to keep out the morning’s light. He had left her a lamp and a clock. Yes, the lamp was still there, its pale yellow flame flickering feebly now. The clock also was by the bedside ticking quickly. Its “tick-tock, tick-tock,” somehow comforted her; there was a human quality in the almost impudent carelessness with which it was doing its business—so regardless of her own feelings. How silly of her to be frightened by a dream!
By her side lay the Princess, her face and hair almost pansy-tinted in the light that filtered through the improvised purple-colored scarf-curtain. She was breathing regularly in a sleep that would be strengthening in its refreshing rest. And then came thoughts of the dangers yet to be endured and overcome. Would they once again be free and happy? Would it be granted to them to see their loved ones again? The questions brought a longing hope shot through with pain. But come what may she would play her part as her father would have wished her to play it.
Stepping out of bed so as not to arouse her companion, she dressed herself in the rough peasant’s costume she had worn the day before, and crept on tip-toe to the window.
Pushing aside the scarf, she leaned out to inhale the cool, balmy air. But the sight that met her eyes made her start back. Surely this was fairyland! Through majestic tree trunks and spreading boughs of noble firs, shafts of sunlight shot down on an earth white with snow. In the golden light the crystals shone and glittered again. The light wind blew the flakes and showered them abroad so that they seemed like floating diamonds as they dropped noiselessly to the ground. High up through the branches she caught a vista of a deep-blue sky, crossed and recrossed by the gleaming white bars of branches and making a pattern of lace work as intricate as it was wonderful. She felt as if she had been transported by some genii into a palace of snow and stalactites. And through it all—through this indescribable maze of virgin whiteness—floated and vibrated a bluish haze, an azure atmosphere that seemed as if it could be felt—pulsating light and living shadows playing a bewildering dance. Helène could scarcely breathe, so entranced was she. She leaned over the window-sill and watched the downy snow as it fell, released from its hold on the branches under the redeeming influence of sunlight. The blood coursed rapidly through her veins; her heart quickened and a new courage and hope came to her. She forgot her anxiety, she forgot the dangers, she thought of nothing but fairies and flowers and the sweet visions of her childhood. She was all compounded of wonder and worship, and happy, happy, happy!
A clear shrill whistle, the intimate call of a bird, drew her attention to the mysterious depths of the lower foliage. A little crossbill was hopping and flitting back and forth; and then she remembered that it was still autumn in the valleys below. And with this remembrance she was brought back to the reality of her present situation—of her escape from the palace with the Princess; of Mr. Morton—how brave and gentle he was! Of the terrible journey through the storm—how kind and considerate he had been!—of their arrival at this place—how encouraging and courteous he had proved himself! Who and what was this man? The little bird flew off with a whirr, and a knock sounded on the door. Helène jumped back quickly.
“Good morning, ladies!” came Morton’s voice through the closed door, “it is a lovely morning and breakfast will be ready as soon as you are.”
Ah, what a friendly sound his words carried with them! She stepped quickly to the door and called out heartily:
“Good morning, Mr. Morton. I am already dressed, and the Princess soon will be. Isn’t it glorious outside?”