"Le premier qui passa,-- The first who rode along,-- 'Voila une endormie!' "Behold! a sleeping maid." "Le deuxieme qui passa,-- The next who rode along,-- 'Elle est encore jolie!' "She's fair enough!" he said. "Le troisieme qui passa, The third who rode along,-- 'Elle sera ma mie!' "My sweetheart she shall be!" "La prit et l'emporta, He's borne her far away, Sur son cheval d'Hongrie." On his steed of Hungary. I was thinking, I remember, how fine it would be to be a knight on a horse of Hungary (though I am not aware that the horses of that country are finer than elsewhere, except in songs), and to stoop down beside the road and catch up the sleeping maiden,--and I knew how she would be looking as she slept,--and ride away with her no one could tell where, into some land of gold and flowers. I was thinking this in a cloudy sort of way, while Yvon had run into the house to bring something,--some piece of music that I must study, out of the stores of ancient music they had. There was a small table standing on the terrace, near where we were sitting, and on it a silver candlestick, with candles lighted. Mlle. Valerie was standing near this, and I again near her, both admiring the moon, which was extraordinary bright and clear in a light blue sky. The light flooded the terrace so, I think we both forgot the poor little candles, with their dull yellow gleam. However it was, the young lady stepped back a pace, and her muslin cape, very light, and fluttering with ruffles and lace, was in the candle, and ablaze in a moment. I heard her cry, and saw the flame spring up around her; but it was only a breath before I had the thing torn off, and was crushing it together in my hands, and next trampling it under foot, treading out the sparks, till it was naught but black tinder. A pretty cape it was, and a sin to see it so destroyed. But I was not thinking of the cape then. I had only eyes for the young lady herself; and when I saw her untouched, save for the end of her curls singed, but pale and frightened, and crying out that I was killed, there came a mist, it seemed, before my face, and I dropped on the stone rail, and laughed. "You are not burned, mademoiselle?" "I? no, sir! I am not touched; but you--you? oh, your hands! You took it in your hands, and they are destroyed! What shall I do?" Before I could move she had caught my two hands in hers, and turned the palms up. Indeed, they were only scorched, not burned deep, though they stung smartly enough; but black they were, and the skin beginning to puff into blisters. But now came the tap of a stick on the stone, and Mme. de Lalange came hobbling out. "What is this?" she cried, seeing me standing so, pale, it may be, with the young lady holding my blackened hands still in hers. "What is the meaning of this scene?"