Zeneida thought she had found in the person of Bethsaba the missing link in the chain. Now it is her work to fit that link in its place.
CHAPTER XLI
HOW TO ROB A MAN OF HIS WIFE
It must be a poor toy that cannot amuse children. And there can be no greater children than a newly married couple who are deeply in love with each other.
There is kite-flying in the park at Pleskow; Bethsaba is in high glee at her kite always flying straight up and remaining aloft, while Alexander's is always coming to grief. Her kite, too, is much handsomer than his. In the form of a dragon, it has two large eyes, a mouth, nose, and movable ears; while Alexander's is just a commonplace thing, made out of old scraps of manuscripts pasted together. The wide expanse affords the two grown-up children room enough to run with their kites. No eyes to see them but those of the stag on the edge of the forest.
A post-chaise rolls quickly along the highway skirting the park walls; the postilion blows his horn cheerily.
"I think that post-chaise must have stopped at our gate," observes Bethsaba.
"So it has. It means either a guest or a letter."
"Oh, I hope no guest," sighed the little wife.
Newly married folk are not hospitable, as a rule. Still, somebody appeared to have come. The dvornik came out towards them from the castle. They hastily let down their kites; they must not be caught at such childish amusements. In the hurry the dragon caught in the withered bough of a pine-tree and lost one eye.
"What a pity!" murmured Bethsaba, in vexation. "Now my dragon has only got one eye. Have you a scrap of paper about you to repair the damage?"