I wander in a fragile bark
O’er life’s tempestuous sea.”
Clarence, at the first notes, stopped crying.
“By George!” he said to himself at the end of the first stanza, “Here’s the difference between that girl and me. I address myself to the bright-eyed goddess of adventure—and see where I am! And she calls on her dear Mother, who is also the Mother of God, and just look what Dora is!”
Before the second stanza was quite finished, the exhausted youth fell into a disturbed sleep. He tossed uneasily for a time, then murmuring as he turned, “Mother dear, O pray for me,” he was wrapped in a slumber which no noise could disturb.
CHAPTER VII
In which the strange tale of Dora, another victim of the Bright-eyed Goddess, is told to Clarence.
When Clarence awoke the next morning, it dawned upon him very slowly that he was in the firm grasp of a stronger hand, and, without any effort on his part, walking up and down the greensward at a pace not unworthy of a professional walker. A further survey brought to his notice the gypsies grouped together and eyeing him with interest. At her tent door, Dora, fresh as a dew-washed rose, stood laughing at him heartily. It was Ben, he also realized, who, holding him by arm and collar, was causing him to walk with such tremendous strides.
“I say, Ben, drop it. Let me go. What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been trying to wake you for five minutes,” said Ben smiling and puffing. “I rolled you over first where you were lying in the wagon, and shouted and pounded you; and when you didn’t show any signs of life, I thought you were dead.”