“Then I will forget you too.”
Moyse lingered for a moment, to watch her stately form, as she made a pathway for herself amidst the tangled shrubs. The walk, once a smooth-shaven turf, kept green by trenches of water, was now overgrown with the vegetation which encroached on either hand. As the dark beauty forced her way, the maypole-aloe shook its yellow crown of flowers, many feet above her head; the lilac jessamine danced before her face; and the white datura, the pink flower-fence, and the scarlet cordia, closed round her form, or spread themselves beneath her feet. Her lover was soon again by her side, warding off every branch and spray, and saying—
“The very flowers worship you: but they and all—all must yield you to me. You are mine; and yet not mine till I have won you from your father. Génifrède, how shall I distinguish myself? Show me the way, and I shall succeed.”
“Do not ask me,” she replied, sighing.
“Nay, whom should I ask?”
“I never desired you to distinguish yourself.”
“You do not wish it?”
“No.”
“Not for your sake?”
“No.”