Iona caught herself leaning over, straining over the inverted arch of the fig-tree, her arms extended toward the college, the fingers cold and electric, the very locks of her loose hair seeming to be turned that way, her whole person having a strange feeling as if a strong current of some sparkling, benumbing essence were flowing from her toward the spot where Prince Dylar lay helpless and unconscious.
She started back. “God forbid!” she cried. “A l’aide, mon prince!” The last words came as of themselves; and her prince was still Dylar.
“Yet it would be for his good and the good of San Salvador,” she said, and began to weep.
And then again, half frightened at her own passion, her mood changed. After all, was she certain that her fears were well-grounded? What proof had she? Nothing strong except Tacita’s silence; and might she not have mistaken the significance of that? Her nature seemed to divide itself in two, one weak, wretched, dying, the other seeking to comfort, reassure, and save this despairing creature from destruction. Her imagination began to hold up pictures to divert the weeping child of earth.
She fancied Dylar in the first enthusiasm of knowing all her plans. He would adore her. But there should be no silly dalliance. For, “I do not love him in that way,” she still persisted. When she should crown herself with the white betrothal roses that must be gathered by her own hand, it would be with the thought of authority wearing the crown of pure justice. When she should assume the rose-colored robe and veil of a bride, it would be to her a figure of that charity all over the world which it would be the aim of her life to promote. Both she and Dylar would be stronger for this companionship; and she would be, not only his inspirer, but his soothing and comforting friend also. Every lion in his path should become his beehive. When he was weary of empire she would charm him with many a folly. For sometimes he would be depressed, perhaps, even out of temper. It was delicious to think of him so—as quite a common man—for a little while. It would be the dear little flaw in her gem.
All should come as she had planned. Their colonies should condense in the plain and on the hills outside, little by little, stealing in as silent as mists, not seeming one, but as strangers to each other. Here at San Salvador should be their stronghold, as now, and their inmost sanctuary. But they would live outside, on a hill, or going from place to place. When all was well ordered without, they would come back for a while, and she would lead Dylar to some height, to the summit of the North Peak, where there should be a mirador, and pointing to their colonies embossing the whole circle even to the horizon, she would say: “Behold the marriage-portion I brought you!” She would tell him of a time when, their earthly lives ended, they might be borne, like Serapeon, over mountain top and plain, while their son—
Their son!
Her fancy descended from its cold mountain height to a green hollow in the hills, and a cooing of doves, and a veil of heliotrope shutting them in. She hung over the face of the child. His cradle should be formed like a lotos-flower, and there he should sit enthroned like Horus, the young Day. As her fancy dwelt on him, he grew,—a youth with inspiration shining in his eyes, a man, with command on his brow. He should bring in a golden age. Peace and brotherly love prevailing should make men look upon their past lives as the lives of wolves. He should wear white while young, and purple when he began to take the reins of government. The white should have a violet border.
Here the dreamer’s fancy seemed to stumble as if caught in the train of a white robe with a violet border that brought some disenchanting reminiscence in its folds.
It was the robe that Tacita had worn the last time they met at the assembly, and she had looked like a Psyche in it.