By virtue first, then choice a queen,
Tell me, is she not one designed
The Eclipse and Glory of her kind?’”
Folding the verses, Standish held out his hand for the letter, and placed the one carefully within the other, his deliberate movements betraying the preoccupation of his mind; then raising his gloomy eyes to the Elder’s face, he said,—
“Your son speaks of Rebecca. When Isaac’s ambassador asked her from her kinsfolk they made answer, ‘We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth.’ So say I to you, Elder.”
“What! if Lora consent, you will not refuse her to my son?”
“We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth. Oh, no, we will not startle her again, as your son confesses that he did on that ill-starred night. Give me the letter if you will, and I will bid her read and ponder it through the night, and to-morrow I will come and tell you; or no,—if it be as you wish, she shall come herself and tell you.”
“I felt that my boy’s words must move a father’s heart,” replied the Elder with a loving complacency, which sank abashed before the fierce glance of the captain’s eyes, as he strode away, muttering,—
“Had not they suited my purpose, his mops and mows had been my scoff.”
Down near the edge of the bluff that finishes Harden Hill stood Lora, leaning lightly against a birch, whose silver bark seemed some quaint ornament of her white samite robe, like the gauzy scarf thrown around her head and shoulders. One slender foot in its silver-buckled shoe showed beneath the hem of her robe as if about to follow the earnest gaze bent seaward. So profound was the maiden’s meditation that she did not hear her father’s step, and was only roused by his sombre voice asking,—