Gabrielle permitted hers to float in loose ringlets, which displayed to the utmost advantage their bright golden colour.
Ernestine's deep dark eyes had usually a quiet and thoughtful expression; her sister's, though less attractive, possessed more vivacity. Ernestine had more pride, Gabrielle more frankness; and I know of no picture more beautiful than was presented by these two motherless sisters, whose home was the camp, when Gabrielle rested her fair head, with its shower of golden curls, upon the budding bosom and snowy shoulder of her more thoughtful, more contemplative, and more matron-like sister; their attitudes were so full of grace and affection.
Ernestine had the fire, the step, the glance, the dark eyes, and the dignity of Spain.
Gabrielle had the rich bloom and bright hair of her mother, the Hainaulter; but Ernestine, though she addressed me least, interested me most. In form she was finer than the most beautiful statue; her hands and arms were of the most pure and perfect form that a sculptor of the highest class could conceive; and yet, if I could make any distinction in their Samaritan attention to me, little Gabrielle was the kindest of the two. When comparing the calm, even, reserved, and well-bred style of their conversation, with the bold and forward manners of Prudentia, I felt nothing but anger and disgust at myself for having yielded so completely to her spells and her snares; and yet the beauty of that Spanish dancer was worthy of a higher sphere and better fate.
During these two days we became quite intimate, for under such circumstances friendship ripens rapidly; and hearing them addressing each other by their Christian names, I soon learned to do so likewise; but the regimental sobriquet (M'Combich), by which I had introduced myself to the count, puzzled them sorely, and they styled me Herr Kombeek. The youngest requested that I should simply call her Gabrielle; but when I addressed the eldest so unceremoniously, she gave me at times one of her proud but quiet smiles. Her reserve piqued me a little, too.
"Lady Ernestine," said I, "why is Gabrielle so much more kind to me than you!"
"I am sorry you should think there is any difference," she replied, bending her dark eyes mildly, but inquiringly, upon me; "yet, perhaps, it may be so—she has a reason for being kind to a soldier, but I have none."
"And why does she never wear ornaments or gay colours—and is one moment so merry and the next so sad?"
"For the same reason."
"What may this reason be?"