"Die Ruhe kehret mir zurück"—
"Die Ruhe kehret mir zurück"—
And the yellow‑hooded lady unhooded a shapely little black head, and it was Leah's.
"Prosit omen!" thought Barty—and it seemed as if his whole heart melted within him.
He could see that Leah and Julia often looked at each other; he could also see, during the intervals, how many double‑barrelled opera‑glasses were levelled at both; it was impossible to say which of these two lovely women was the loveliest; probably most votes would have been for Julia, the fair‑haired one, the prima donna assoluta, the soprano, the Rowena, who always gets the biggest salary and most of the applause.
The brunette, the contralto, the Rebecca, dazzles less, but touches the heart all the more deeply, perhaps; anyhow, Barty had no doubt as to which of the two voices was the voice for him. His passion was as that of Brian de Bois‑Guilbert for mere strength, except that he was bound by no vows of celibacy. There were no moonlit platonics about Barty's robust love, but all the chivalry and tenderness and romance of a knight‑errant underlay its vigorous complexity. He was a good knight, though not Sir Galahad!
Also he felt very patriotic, as a good knight should ever feel, and proud of a country which could grow such a rose as Julia, and such a lily as Leah Gibson.
Next to Julia sat Captain Reece, romantic and handsome as ever, with manly love and devotion expressed in every line of his face, every movement of his body; and the heaviest mustache and the most beautiful brown whiskers in the world. He was either a hussar or a lancer; I forget which.
"By my halidom," mentally ejaculated Barty, "I sincerely wish thee joy and life‑long happiness, good Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Thou art a right fit mate for her, peerless as she may be among women! A benison on you both from your poor Wamba, the son of Witless."
As he went home that night, after the concert, to his tryst with Martia, the north came back to him—through the open window as it were, with the fire‑flies and fragrances, and the song of fifty nightingales. It was for him a moment of deep and harassing emotion and keen anxiety. He leaned over the window‑sill and looked out on the starlit heavens, and whispered aloud the little speech he had prepared: