“No; I gave it to a youth who begged it,” she answered, blushing.
“Ha! And thou hast brought back two,” he said, “and they are both for me, my summer child.”
And he kissed her on each cheek.
The color ran up to her forehead, and as she stood in the rosy sunset, with downcast eyes, in the bloom and glow of youth so beautiful, the old Baron’s heart yearned toward his daughter. He gathered her in his arms, and said:
“I will carry thee home, little one. Thou art my Rose of the World; for there is none on earth like thee. As we go, thou shalt tell me of this youth. Did he ride a milk-white steed?”
“Yes; a high, proud one; not a single black hair on him; its mane swam the wind, and its trappings were of scarlet and gold.”
“A goodly youth, with spurs; was he not?”
“Yes; his hair was black as the wing of the night raven. He had a noble air, and oh! an eye that takes your breath!”
“And his page, Ginevra?”
“A comely little page, but nothing like his master.”