And lifts to the sun its royal head;
There’s never a flower of such sweet grace
As the blossoming rose on my lady’s face—
Rose-red, flower grace,
Never a rose like my lady’s face.”
With that refrain ringing in my ears, “Never a rose like my lady’s face,” I went from the shining flood of sunshine into a hall that seemed like dusky twilight after the outside brilliance. But in the centre was a space where the sunlight drifted down through an open window into a circle of radiance and in the middle of it stood Mademoiselle, a shining figure that dimmed all other light. She was clad in white and gold, and the long folds of her robe lay in shimmering snow along the marble floor. Her amber hair was like a river that the morning sun-rays cross. Her eyes shone like great sapphires set under long lashes of gold and arched over by golden brows. It was as if the light of a thousand suns had centered in one fair woman.
The scar, once a proud and happy place upon my arm, burned as if a coal of fire had been dropped upon it and for one wild moment I could have cut from me the arm that had interposed to save the life of my master. Then I knelt before her, when she had waved her hand for my approach, and presented the letter. She looked at it carelessly and turned her eyes from it to me where I knelt and beckoned me to rise.
“Tell me of yourself,” she said in a voice that was like the softest strain of a lute. “Who are you?”
Who was I? Yesterday I would have said a man. Had I not done a man’s part in battle? Was it not a man’s right arm that had stretched itself forth to save a great life? Now I was—nothing. There was not a grain of dust in the streets of Paris smaller than I.
“Nothing, my lady,” I said, not daring to lift my eyes to her face, nor scarcely to look at her hand lying like a white lily on the snow of her gown.