His eyes still smiled:
"I gave him his golden key;—how he should use it, that was not in our bond? But, truly, I will make another bond with you any day, Folle-Farine."
She shuddered, and her hands dropped from their hold.
"You know nothing?" she murmured.
"Of your Norse god? nay, nothing. An eagle soars too high for a man's sight to follow, you know—oftentimes."
And he laughed his little soft laugh.
The eagles often soared so high—so high—that the icy vapors of the empyrean froze them dead, and they dropped to earth a mere bruised, helpless, useless mass:—he knew.
She stood stunned and confused: her horror of Sartorian was struggling into life through the haze in which all things of the past were still shrouded to her dulled remembrance—all things, save her love.
"Rest awhile," he said, gently. "Rest; and we may—who knows?—learn something of your Northern god. First, tell me of yourself. I have sought for tidings of you vainly."
Her eyes glanced round her on every side.