She settled softly closer to him and shrugged lightly. "How should I know?"
He smiled at her proudly and caught her brown hand to his lips.
"You are dyed in the illusions of your race,—mystery—fatalism. They become you well. But here among the roses of Konopisht there is no room in my heart or yours for anything but happiness. See how they nod to each other in the sunlight, Marishka. Like us, they love and are loved. June comes to Bohemia but once a year—or to us. Let us bloom in the sunlight like them—happy—happy——"
"Blood red, the roses," she said pensively. "The white ones please me better. But they are so few. The Archduke likes the red ones best. What is the verse?
"I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled."
"What matter Cæsar or Kaiser to us, Marishka? Our own kingdom——"
"Yes, yes," she sighed. "And I am happy in it. You know it, nicht wahr?"
Silence, except for the drowsy hum of the bees and the songs of the birds. No fatalism is long proof against the call of love and June. Marishka was content that her flight had ended in capture and sat dreamily gazing at the white clouds floating overhead while she listened to the voice at her ear, replying to it in monosyllables, the language of acquiescence and content. The moments passed. Konopisht was no longer a garden. Enchanted their bower and even the red roses forgotten.
Suddenly the girl started upright to her knees, and peered wide-eyed through an opening in the foliage.
"What is it, Marishka?"