“And she said no more of me?”
“Yes, much, as we went toward the river; much concerning your gallantry; and from the barge wherein she sat, beside her new-found friend, she cried back to me that with all speed they would send you aid to the bridge. ’Tis evident the assistance came.”
Vytal made no denial. The method of his escape was but a trifling detail of the past. He shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis well I strive not only for reward.”
“Was it not reward,” asked the poet, “to look once upon that face with the eye of a protector?”
“Yes,” said Vytal.
“And to see her bosom heave gently to the rise and fall of the universal life-breath tide, which alone hath poetry’s perfect motion, and to note its trouble in the rhythm as in the breast of a sleeping sea—was that not recompense?”
“Yes.”
“And her eyes—the privilege to tell of them, to wonder vainly, and seek with all poetic fervor for words that hold their spirit—is it not invaluable reward?”
“Yes,” said Vytal.