McClure's Magazine, Vol. 6, No. 3, February 1896Various
History
McClure's Magazine, Vol. 6, No. 3, February 1896
Various
American literature -- Periodicals; Literature -- Periodicals
"No, madam," he said, with another bow.
"Farewell, sir."
"Madam, farewell."
So she went on her way, and saw him no more till the next day, nor
after that till the next day following; and then came an interval when
she saw him not, and the interval was no less than twenty-four hours;
yet still he read of Helen of Troy, and still sighed that she was dead
and he no prince. At last he tempted the longed-for question from her
shy, smiling lips.
"Why would you not mourn, sir, if you were a prince?" said she. "For
princes and princesses have their share of sighs." And with a very
plaintive sigh Osra looked at the rapid-running river, as she waited
for the answer.
"Because I would then go to Strelsau, and so forget her."
[Illustration: "FROM THE LONG GRASS BY THE RIVER'S EDGE A YOUNG MAN
SPRANG UP, AND, WITH A VERY LOW BOW, DREW ASIDE TO LET HER PASS."]
"But you are at Strelsau now!" she cried with wonderful surprise.
"Ah, but I am no prince, madam!" said he.
"Can princes alone--forget in Strelsau?"
"How should a poor student dare to--forget in Strelsau?" And as he
spoke he made bold to step near her, and stood close, looking down
into her face. Without a word she turned and left him, going with a
step that seemed to dance through the meadow and yet led her to her
own chamber, where she could weep in quiet.
"I know it now, I know it now!" she whispered softly that night to
the tree that rose by her window. "Heigh-ho, what am I to do? I cannot
live; no, and now I cannot die. Ah me! what am I to do? I wish I were
a peasant-girl--but then perhaps he would not--Ah yes, but he would!"
And her low, long laugh rippled in triumph through the night, and
blended with the rustling of the leaves under a summer breeze, and
she stretched her white arms to heaven, imploring the kind God with
prayers that she dared not speak even to His pitiful ear.
"Love knows no princesses, my princess." It was that she heard as she
fled from him next day. She should have rebuked him. But for that she
must have stayed, and to stay she had not dared. Yet she must rebuke
him. She must see him again in order to rebuke him. Yet all this while
she must be pestered with the court of the Grand Duke of Mittenheim!
And when she would not name a day on which the embassy should come,
the king flew into a passion, and declared that he would himself set
a date for it. Was his sister mad, he asked, that she would do nothing
but walk every day by the river's bank?
"Surely I must be mad," thought Osra, "for no sane being could be at
once so joyful and so piteously unhappy."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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