"What is it?" she asked, a faint smile upon her face as she noticed my glee. "Nothing bad, I hope."
"He says that thou art more lovely than the dawn," I answered, wisely judging that it would be better to suppress the latter part of his remark.
The color deepened in her cheeks.
"Since when hast thou taught the very savages to turn a compliment?" she said. "Truly, sir, thou hast not labored in vain."
"They know no better than to tell the truth," I answered, a smile upon my face. "'Tis from the heart, and not from the lips as in London."
She made no answer, but turning her head looked out upon the dark river, as its waters glistened and sparkled in the moonlight. And I watched her lovely profile as she sat thus.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" she said softly.
"Very beautiful," I answered, as I still gazed at her. I was thinking of her face, and if I but dared to lean over and press my lips to that soft cheek, which so lately had lain against my shoulder.
She stamped her little foot.
"Where are thy wits?" she said. "Thou lookest off as though in a dream, and I venture to say that thou knowest not one word that I have said."