The blood sprang to the cheeks of the impetuous queen;
Then every soldier satisfied his vengeance;
None like Morgana!
Swift and daring she struck this one and pierced that one!
Ah, she poured out to her enemies a bitter drink!
Thus they all perished!
Everywhere the impassioned looks and voices of the crowd made them feel that war was near. All these peasants, coming from different regions, were stirred by a common desire—to see the return of the heroic days when Morgana and Rhodaïs and the great ancestresses had led the people to victory.
Every one in the street drew aside as the party passed. The rumor had run that a queen was to visit the duke—a young maiden from unknown lands beyond the sea, where the sun sets. Which one was it? Ethel or Helia? Perhaps both? The people were in admiration at their noble air. Women grown prematurely old in the harsh labor of the fields were in ecstasy at their beauty. To them the two young girls seemed of a higher race, like that of the saints and heroines in the stained-glass windows of their churches; they followed them with their eyes, and took up again their chants in honor of Morgana.
Morgana was the universal inspiration; she was everywhere. In the back of gloomy shops icons were to be seen—St. Morgana, with the Virgin, dimly lighted by a burning float. There was something touching in the faith which this people had in their national legends.
Ethel appreciated the silence of the crowd on the jetty that evening when the duke quitted the yacht. No; his people did not recognize themselves in him. They still had a certain respect for him, for the sake of his glorious ancestors; but the people were prepared to abandon him, and to take shelter in their dreams.