The Princess Genevra, slim and erect, was standing before him, her hand touching her turban in true military salute, soft laughter rippling from her lips.
In the exuberance of joy, he clasped that little hand and crushed it against his lips.
"You!" he exclaimed.
"Sh!" she warned, "I have retained my guard of honour."
He looked beyond her and beheld the tall, soldierly figure of a Rapp-Thorberg guardsman.
"The devil!" fell involuntarily from his lips.
"Not at all. He is here to keep me from going to the devil," she cried so merrily that he laughed aloud with her in the spirit of unbounded joy. "Come! Let us run after the others. I want to run and dance and sing."
He still held her hand as they ran swiftly down the drive, followed closely by the faithful sergeant.
"You are an angel," he said in her ear. She laughed as she looked up into his face.
"Yes—a Persian angel," she cried. "It's so much easier to run well in a Persian angel's costume," she added.