'Quite the lydy, she is,' went on Jân-Ali-shân, continuing his approval of the drawbridge. 'Ain't got no games in 'er--'olds out 'er arms if she likes you, an' draws in 'er arms if she don't. That's the sort.'
And then some link of thought started him on a song which shared first favourite honours with
'Her golding 'air all 'anging down 'er back,'
in the estimation of his sing-song audiences, and the notes of
'Where'er you walk,'
echoed out over the river, and made the bathers on the temple steps, who had been watching the proceedings, look up once more towards the bridge.
'Where'er you walk,
Cool gales shall fan the glade;
Trees where you sit
Shall crowd into a shade;
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.'
The most passionate, yet the purest, praise a woman ever won from man, perfect in its self-forgetfulness, in its delight in the admiration of the whole world for what is praised, fell from John Ellison's lips in almost perfect style; for he had been taught the song in those early days of surpliced choirs.
And Chris Davenant, as he listened, staring out over the river, clinched his hands on the iron rail in a sudden passion of self-pity.
This is what he had found in the poets of the West! This was what he had sought in the prose of life! It was for this he had forsaken so much--this white-robed woman with the breezes cooling the hot blood, and the trees crowding to shade her from the fierce heat of noon!