“The Countess Yvorra took him for a run round the courtyard.”
“I think I must undertake a convenience next for dogs.... It is disgraceful they have not got one already, poor creatures,” the Archduchess crooned accepting the proffered glass.
“Yes, yes, dear,” the Queen exclaimed rising and crossing to the window.
The bitter odour of the oleander flowers outside oppressed the breathless air and filled the room as with a faint funereal music. So still a day. Tending the drooping sun-saturated flowers, a gardener with long ivory arms alone seemed animate.
“Pull up your skirt, Marquise! Pull it up.... It’s dragging, a little, in the water.”
“Judica me, Deus,” in imperious tones, the priest by the bedside besought: “et discerne causam meum de gente non sancta. Parce, Domine! Parce populo tuo—! ne in aeternum irascaris nobis.”
“A whale! A whale!”
“Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus speravit anima mea in Domino.”
“Elsie?” A look of wondrous happiness overspread the Archduchess’ face—She was wading—wading again among the irises and rushes; wading, her hand in Princess Elsie’s hand, through a glittering golden sea, towards the wide horizon.
The plangent cry of a peacock, rose disquietingly from the garden.