Manisty breasted the hill, humming as he walked. The irregular vigorous form, the nobility and animation of his carriage drew the gaze of the priest after him.
'At what point'—he said to himself,—'will he find her?'
CHAPTER XXII
Eleanor did not rise now, as a rule, till half way through the morning.
Lucy had left her in bed.
It was barely nine o'clock. Every eastern or southern window was already fast closed and shuttered, but her door stood open to the loggia into which no sun penetrated till the afternoon.
A fresh breeze, which seemed the legacy of the storm, blew through the doorway. Framed in the yellow arches of the loggia she saw two cypresses glowing black upon the azure blaze of the sky. And in front of them, springing from a pot on the loggia, the straggly stem and rosy bunches of an oleander. From a distance the songs of harvesters at their work; and close by, the green nose of a lizard peeping round the edge of the door.
Eleanor seemed to herself to have just awakened from sleep; yet not from unconsciousness. She had a confused memory of things which had passed in sleep—of emotions and experiences. Her heart was beating fast, and as she sat up, she caught her own reflection in the cracked glass on the dressing-table. Startled, she put up her hand to her flushed cheek. It was wet.
'Crying!' she said, in wonder—'what have I been dreaming about? And why do
I feel like this? What is the matter with me?'
After a minute or two, she rang a handbell beside her, and her maid appeared.
'Marie, I am so well—so strong! It is extraordinary! Bring everything. I should like to get up.'