Then the ridges grew blacker again, and back of one edge a sharp flare of light flamed, and a blood red disc of a moon came pushing furiously up into the sky, flinging down a transforming radiance.
In the valley the silvery birches gleamed like wood nymphs against the ebony firs.
Beauty had touched the world again. A long breath came fluttering from the girl's lips; she felt strangely solaced and comforted. After all, it was Johnny with her . . . the fairy prince. Her dreams were coming true . . . even under the shadow of this tragedy.
Again she felt his lips upon her cheek and now he was trying to turn her head towards him. Mutely she resisted, drawing away, but his force increased. She closed her eyes; she felt his kiss upon her hair, her cheek, the corner of her unstirring mouth.
And she thought that it was his right—if she turned from him she would seem strangely refusing. An American, she knew, kissed his fiancée freely.
But it was a tremendous freedom. . . .
It would have been—knightlier, she thought quiveringly, if he had not done that, if he had revealed a more respectful homage.
But these were American ways . . . and he was a man and he loved her and he wanted to feel that she belonged to him utterly. It was comfort for her troubled spirit.
But when she felt his hand trying to turn up her chin, so that her young lips might meet his, she slipped decidedly away.
"No? All right." Johnny gave a short, uncertain laugh. "All right, little girl, I'll be good."