Here we but feel the penalty of Adam—
The seasons’ difference, as the frosty fancy
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind;
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say—
This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.—Shakspeare.
While Vittorio and Alberta talked together outside the door, Elfie entered the leafy hut and threw herself down upon the fragrant pallet that had been spread for her accommodation.
Her shelter was like a fairy bower. Wherever she stretched her hands out towards the walls, or the floor, or the ceiling, she found leaves. Yet the hut was not so compactly built as to prevent the moonbeams from shining in between the loosely woven pine boughs; so the place was dappled over with spots of moonlight; and filled with the fragrance of pine blooms; and cheered with the chirp of insects that sung from every twig.
Elfie lay and rested well, luxuriously; but she could not sleep. Outside they were beating the tattoo, and the guerrillas were putting away their horses or hurrying to their quarters; and the rolling of the drums, the prancing of the steeds, and the tramping of the men would have kept Elfie awake, even if her own troubled thoughts had not banished sleep from her eyes.