The first part of their road was over an arid plain, dull thin grass and a few parched shrubs spotting the sandy soil; but in the distance was a mass of rich dark green foliage with keen mountains, black and white, rising into the splendid blue above them.
The German remembered one who had said: “I am a daughter of the mountains.” He never saw one of those masses of rock and snow rising into the air without wondering if it might not be there she drew her first breath.
The man, Pierre, did not know the names of the mountains. Some of them had their own names. That highest peak at the left was called the White Lady, and was beyond the castle. The castle was very ancient, and one part in ruins. There were many stories about it. His mother knew them. For him, he was content with the present. The past interested him but little. The castle was set on a spur of the mountains, and quite close to them. The inner wall of the court was a cliff. Their road would lead them ten miles straight to the mountains; then they turned southward, and after five miles would reach the Olives, which was south of the heights and just round a turn. At the first turn was a fountain where they could water the donkey, and rest a little while, if they liked. There was an old ruined house there where they usually stopped, going to and from the station.
“Did the prince live much at the castle?” one of the gentlemen asked.
“No; he came occasionally. He lived abroad, now here, now there. He had spent a fortnight the year before at Castle Dylar with his bride.”
“Oh, there is a bride!” said the Frenchman. “What is she like?”
The man had spoken in a serious and matter-of-fact way; but at the question a smile flitted over his face.
“She is tall and slender, and white and golden-haired,” he said. “She is very silent; but when she smiles, you think that she has spoken.”
The Italian changed color. “Do you know her name—her maiden name?” he asked.
“We call her Lady, or Princess,” the man said. “I know no other name.”