This afternoon the milkman is late. Zdena cannot wait for him quietly; she puts on an old straw hat and goes to meet him. It is nearly six o'clock; the sun is quite low, and beams pale golden through a ragged veil of fleecy clouds. A soft breeze is blowing; spring odours fill the air. The flat landscape is wondrous in colour, but it lacks the sharp contrasts of summer. Zdena walks quickly, with downcast eyes. Suddenly the sound of a horse's hoofs falls upon her ear. She looks up. Can it be? Her heart stands still, and then--why, then she finds nothing better to do than to turn and run home as fast as her feet can carry her. But he soon overtakes her. Springing from his horse, he gives the bridle to a peasant-lad passing by.
"Zdena!" he calls.
"Ah, it is you!" she replies, in a weak little voice, continuing to hurry home. Not until she has reached the old orchard does she pause, out of breath.
"Zdena!" Harry calls again, this time in a troubled voice, "what is the matter? Why are you so--so strange? You almost seem to be frightened!"
"I--I--you came so unexpectedly. We had no idea----" she stammers.
"Unexpectedly!" Harry repeats, and his look grows dark. "Unexpectedly! May I ask if you have again changed your mind?"
Her face is turned from him. Dismayed, assailed by a thousand dark fancies, he gazes at her. On a sudden he perceives that she is sobbing; and then----
Neither speaks a word, but he has clasped her to his breast, she has put both arms around his neck, and--according to the poets, who are likely to be right--the one perfect moment in the lives of two mortals is over!
The spring laughs exultantly among the trees, and rains white blossoms upon the heads of the fair young couple beneath them. Around them breathes the fragrance of freshly-awakened life, the air of a new, transfigured existence; there is a fluttering in the air above, as a cloud of birds sails over the blossom-laden orchard.
"Zdena, where are you?" calls the voice of the major. "Zdena, come quickly! Look! the swallows have come!"