Then a faint, almost noiseless patter of bare running feet paused at the door, and some one looked in to say breathlessly--
"It hath begun, they say. But who knows? I am off to the city to see."
Hushmut looked up startled from his rose-leaves; startled, nothing more.
"Begun!--so soon--wherefore?"
"God knows!" came the breathless voice. "Mayhap it is a lie. Some thought it would not come at all. I will return and tell thee the news."
The faint, almost noiseless patter of bare feet died away, and there was peace and rest in the garden for another space. Only Hushmut shuffled to the door, looked out curiously, then shuffled back to his work, for that must be finished before dark, else the roses would spoil, squandering their sweetness. There was another pile of brownish, yellow residuum ready dried for the furnace, and as he filled a basket with it, his hands among the scentless stuff, a sudden remembrance of his own impotence, his own deprivation, came to him. Perhaps he had seen a hint of the simile in the English girl's face.
He smiled half cynically and muttered--
"Only the dust of the rose remains for the perfume-seller."
He paused almost before the bit of treasured wisdom was ended. There was a sound of wheels; of a galloping horse's feet.
Some one was coming back to the garden. The next instant, through the open door, he saw two figures running; an Englishman, an English girl in a pink dress. The man's arm was round her as he ran; he looked back fearfully, then seemed to whisper something in her ear, and she gave answer back.