The mites huddled together and drew back; and Seraphina’s heart
reproached her that she should have frightened things so quaint and
little, and yet alive with senses. She thought upon the birds and looked
again at her two visitors; so little larger and so far more innocent. On
their clear faces, as in a pool, she saw the reflection of their fears.
With gracious purpose she arose.
‘Come,’ she said, ‘do not be afraid of me,’ and took a step towards them.
But alas! at the first moment, the two poor babes in the wood turned and
ran helter-skelter from the Princess.
The most desolate pang was struck into the girl’s heart. Here she was,
twenty-two—soon twenty-three—and not a creature loved her; none but Otto;
and would even he forgive? If she began weeping in these woods alone, it
would mean death or madness. Hastily she trod the thoughts out like a
burning paper; hastily rolled up her locks, and with terror dogging her,
and her whole bosom sick with grief, resumed her journey.
Past ten in the forenoon, she struck a high-road, marching in that place
uphill between two stately groves, a river of sunlight; and here, dead
weary, careless of consequences, and taking some courage from the human
and civilised neighbourhood of the road, she stretched herself on the
green margin in the shadow of a tree. Sleep closed on her, at first with
a horror of fainting, but when she ceased to struggle, kindly embracing
her. So she was taken home for a little, from all her toils and sorrows,
to her Father’s arms. And there in the meanwhile her body lay exposed by
the highwayside, in tattered finery; and on either hand from the woods
the birds came flying by and calling upon others, and debated in their
own tongue this strange appearance.
The sun pursued his journey; the shadow flitted from her feet, shrank
higher and higher, and was upon the point of leaving her altogether, when
the rumble of a coach was signalled to and fro by the birds. The road in
that part was very steep; the rumble drew near with great deliberation;
and ten minutes passed before a gentleman appeared, walking with a sober
elderly gait upon the grassy margin of the highway, and looking
pleasantly around him as he walked. From time to time he paused, took
out his note-book and made an entry with a pencil; and any spy who had
been near enough would have heard him mumbling words as though he were a
poet testing verses. The voice of the wheels was still faint, and it was
plain the traveller had far outstripped his carriage.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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