At times her long train swirled in a misty spiral around her, when they whirled about in some corner; then it spread out behind her like a great fan when they swept in a wide curve from one end of the gallery to the other.
During the feverish flight which drew these two together, their breasts touched, the bosom of the enchantress leaned against the broad chest of the vigorous soldier, her soft hair caressed his cheek, he inhaled a subtle Perfume, and a sudden intoxication overflowed his heart, which he had tried to make as stern and immobile as his face.
“How well you waltz!” murmured Zibeline, in his ear.
“I am taking my revenge for my defeat on the ice,” he replied, clasping her a little closer, in order to facilitate their movements.
“The prisoners you take must find it very difficult to escape from your hands,” she said, with a touch of malice.
“Does that mean that already you wish to reclaim your liberty?”
“Not yet—unless you are fatigued.”
“Fatigued! I should like to go thus to the end of the world!”
“And I, too,” said Zibeline, simply.
By common consent the other waltzers had stopped, as much for the purpose of observing these two as for giving them more space, while the wearied musicians scraped away as if it were a contest who should move the faster, themselves or the audacious couple.