“I am Pierre!” she whispered to herself. “I am a brave knight. Rosemary loves me.”
The disquieting effect of this last thought awakened her to the realities of life. Perhaps, after all, Rosemary did love her a little as Pierre. If this were true—
Sliding off the steed, then lifting Rosemary to the floor, she exclaimed:
“Come! Over yonder is a castle. Let us see who is at home over there.”
Soon enough she was to see.
The castle was, as all stage castles are, a mere shell; very beautiful and grand on the outside, a hollow echo within. For all that, the two youthful adventurers found a certain joy in visiting that castle. There was a rough stairway leading up through great empty spaces within to a broad, iron-railed balcony. From this balcony, on more than one night, an opera lover had leaned forth to sing songs of high enchantment, luring forth a hidden lover.
They climbed the stairs. Then Petite Jeanne, caught by the spell of the place, leaned far out of the window and burst into song, a wild gypsy serenade.
Rosemary was leaning back among the rafters, drinking in the sweet mystery of life that was all about her, when of a sudden the French girl’s song broke off. Her face went white for an instant as she swayed there and must surely have fallen had not Rosemary caught her.
“Wha—what is it?” she whispered hoarsely.
For a space of seconds there came no answer, then a low whisper: