"But her eyes are twain,—
And should the light of all the world delay,
And darkness prove victorious? Is it day
Now that the sun alone is risen?
"Nay,
The sun is single, but her eyes are twain,—
Twain firmaments that mock with heavenlier hue
The heavens' less lordly and less gracious blue,
And lit with sunlier sunlight through and through,
"The sun is single, but her eyes are twain,
And of fair things this side of Paradise
Fairest, of goodly things most goodly,"
He paused here and smote a resonant and louder chord. His voice ascended in dulcet supplication.
"Rise, And succor the benighted world that cries, The sun is single, but her eyes are twain!"
"Eh—? So it is you, is it?" Claire was peeping disdainfully from the window. Her throat was bare, and her dusky hair was a shade dishevelled, and in her meditative eyes he caught the flicker of her tardiest dream just as it vanished.
"It is I," John Bulmer confessed—"come to awaken you according to the ancient custom of Poictesme."
"I would much rather have had my sleep out," said she, resentfully. "In perfect frankness, I find you and your ancient customs a nuisance."
"You lack romance, my wife."
"Oh—?" She was a person of many cryptic exclamations, this bride of his.
Presently she said: "Indeed, Monsieur Bulmer, I entreat you to leave
Poictesme. I have informed Louis of everything, and he is rather furious."