“Another time!” interrupted the King, with a touch of asperity. “Meanwhile, present your—your pupil in the poesy of Heine,—to me!”
Thus commanded, the Professor, casting a vexed glance at De Launay, who did not in the least comprehend his distress, went to the girl, who during their brief conversation had stood quietly looking from one to the other with an expression of half-amused disdain on her lovely features.
“Gloria,” he began reluctantly—then whispering in her ear, he muttered—“I told you your voice would do mischief, and it has done it!” Then aloud—“Gloria,—this—this is the King!”
She smiled, but did not change her erect and easy attitude.
“The King is welcome!” she said simply.
She had evidently no intention of saluting the monarch; and Sir Roger de Launay gazed at her in mingled surprise and admiration. She was certainly wonderfully beautiful. Her complexion had the soft clear transparency of a pink sea-shell—her eyes, large and lustrous, were as densely blue as the dark azure in the depths of a wave,—and her hair, of a warm bronze chestnut, caught back with a single band of red coral, seemed to have gathered in its rich curling clusters all the deepest tints of autumn leaves flecked with a golden touch of the sun. Her figure, clad in a straight garment of rough white homespun, was the model of perfect womanhood. She stood a little above the medium height, her fair head poised proudly on regal shoulders, while the curve of the full bosom would have baffled the sculptural genius of a Phidias. The whole exquisite outline of her person was the expressed essence of beauty, from the lightest wave of her hair, down to her slender ankles and small feet; and the look that irradiated her noble features was that of child-like happiness and repose,—the untired expression of one who had never known any other life than the innocent enjoyment bestowed upon her by God and divine Nature. Beautiful as his Queen-Consort was and always had been, the King was forced to admit to himself that here was a woman far more beautiful,—and as he looked upon her critically, he saw that there was a light and splendour about her which only the happiness of Love can give. Her whole aspect was as of one uplifted into a finer atmosphere than that of earth,—she seemed to exhale purity from herself, as a rose exhales perfume, and her undisturbed serenity and dignity, when made aware of the Royal presence, were evidently not the outcome of ill-breeding or discourtesy, but of mere self-respect and independence. He approached her with a strange hesitation, which for him was quite a new experience.
“I am glad I have been fortunate enough to meet you!” he said gently;—“Some kindly fate guided my steps down the path which brought me to this part of the shore, else I might have gone away without seeing you!”
“That would have been no loss to your Majesty,” answered Gloria calmly;—“For to see me, is of no use to anyone!”
“Would your husband say so?” hazarded the King with a smile.
Her eyes flashed.