"Next Friday, my lord, when I come again to lay the flowers at the shrine. If my lord makes preparation, and if he changeth not his mind, his servant will be there."
"Unless she also changeth her mind," interrupted Babar with forced lightness.
"That might be," came the answer. "Yet is it not so likely as the other. The caged bird does not choose its song. And now farewell. God have you in his keeping."
The figure stooped to gather its flowing robes together, and something in the supple elegance of the movement sent Babar's blood to his heart and head.
"Not so, my moon," he cried, every atom of him vibrant with emotion. "Not so do we part." And with two swinging strides he was across the flickering rose light on the marble floor, took the hand held out to him unflinchingly, and stooped to kiss it.
"Wife and mother, guardian and friend, so shalt thou be to me, so help me God."
The next instant he was alone staring into the night, wondering if he had fallen asleep and dreamt it all.
No! It was a reality. His signet ring was gone. He must have put it on that firm delicate hand, the memory of whose touch thrilled him through and through.
And he had called her his moon. Yet his heart was beating tranquilly.
When he lay down on the carven bed he did not toss and turn. He did not even feel inclined to indite a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow or compare her to anything in heaven above or the earth beneath.