Before he had finished the sentence Ginevra had accepted the offer. It was the first time. His arm trembled. He thought it was her hand.
“Ye’re no caul’, are ye, mem?” he said.
“Not the least,” she answered.
“Eh, mem! gien fowk was but a’ made oot o’ the same clay, like, ’at ane micht say till anither—‘Ye hae me as ye hae yersel’’!”
“Yes, Donal,” rejoined Ginevra; “I wish we were all made of the poet-clay like you! What it would be to have a well inside, out of which to draw songs and ballads as I pleased! That’s what you have, Donal—or, rather, you’re just a draw-well of music yourself.”
Donal laughed merrily. A moment more and he broke out singing:
My thoughts are like fireflies, pulsing in moonlight;
My heart is a silver cup, full of red wine;
My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light
Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.
“What’s that, Donal?” cried Ginevra.
“Ow, naething,” answered Donal. “It was only my hert lauchin’.”
“Say the words,” said Ginevra.