“You are as full as ever of enthusiasm for your hero,” he remarked, “though he has been a sort of cold shower-bath to you lately, eh?”
Leonard coloured, and shifted uneasily on his seat.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“I guessed it, old man. In fact, I saw the ‘cold shower-bath’ in his eye that day—you know.”
“Yes—perhaps you are not far out, Jack. However, I promised to leave things in his hands, and there they must remain at present. Of his regard for me I have no doubt whatever—or for us both. If he cannot do the almost impossible, I shall accept my fate, and try to bear it as well as may be. Let us say no more about it now.”
Jack, who for all his usual habit of appearing somewhat unobservant, could see most things, thought he could have told his friend of some one else who was displaying signs of unhappiness under Monella’s ‘cold shower-bath’ treatment—Ulama, to wit. She had become very quiet and grave of late; and, indeed, the fresh, childish gaiety she had shown during the first few days after their arrival had disappeared. But Jack discreetly decided to keep these thoughts to himself, and let events take their course. He knew that they were in the keeping of a head wiser and more far-seeing than his own—Monella’s. Of late they had seen comparatively little of him; he was most of his time either closeted with the king, or had gone, it was said, to Myrlanda, to visit Sanaima, the chief of the ‘White Priests.’ On these occasions he would be away for two or three days together. Yet, whenever either of the young men chanced to run against him—or, if they met at the king’s table—they found no alteration in his manner. Indeed, he showed, if anything, increased kindliness in both his words and actions, often going out of his way to do some little thing, in a manner all his own, to show, before whoever might be present, his cordial feelings towards them. For the rest, he had the air of one whose mind is charged with anxious and weighty thoughts, and both Templemore and Elwood felt rather than knew that he was occupied with fears of trouble in the future.
One morning, a few days after the visit to the canyon, Monella invited Leonard to walk out with him, and they went together to the place they had named ‘Monella’s Height.’
The day was clear and bright, and a slight breeze came sighing through the tree-tops. The scene around was full of soft repose, soothing and curiously satisfying to the mind. But Leonard noticed it not to-day; his heart beat fast, and his colour came and went, for something in Monella’s manner told him that he was about to hear a statement of moment on the subject that was always uppermost in his thoughts. He tried to brace himself to bear the worst, if it must come; but his effort was not too successful.
“My son,” Monella presently began, “I promised to speak with you, when I could, upon the matter we talked about one day. Is your mind still the same concerning it?”
Was it? Did he need to ask? Leonard impulsively replied. And he launched into a rhapsody that need not here be given at length. Monella listened in silence till the young man had finished, and then went on,